


And So We Sing in Elegies

by hail_writes



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Artist!Reader, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Oberyn is a softie, oberyn martell/reader - Freeform, one chapter has depictions of violence (there will be a warning)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26862496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hail_writes/pseuds/hail_writes
Summary: You’ve been handmaiden to the Prince of Dorne for years--and after nearly a decade of being witness to Oberyn’s heart of gold, it was almost too easy to let yourself fall.But when earth-shattering news comes in the form of a letter from your estranged parents, the ground is ripped from beneath your feet in a way that you never bargained for.  Though you wish it weren’t so, it’s impossible to live in two worlds at once--and so you must choose which to bury: your future, or your past?In the end, you know you’ve been living in the presence of the sun for too long. You suppose, in one sick way or another, you’re only destined to be burned.
Relationships: Oberyn Martell & Ellaria Sand, Oberyn Martell & Reader, Oberyn Martell / reader, Oberyn/reader
Comments: 17
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to And So We Sing in Elegies, friends! This has been a long time in the making–I’ve been working on collecting research (lots of it), planning out the story, and just generally working on world development for at least a month. This story is inspired by some scenes from Pride and Prejudice (2005) and Little Women (2019), so be prepared for pining. That being said, I’m super proud of this story, so enjoy!

It was dawn when Oberyn appeared. 

You had expected him to wake at least a _few_ hours later--the Prince of Dorne had a reputation of staying up late, after all, and you were sure that the previous night was no exception. You hadn’t so much as seen him since the previous morning--something about temporary business in Sunspear, you had discovered--and so you assumed that you would only see him later that afternoon, during your usual routine of slipping into his chambers and refilling his ever-empty bowl of berries. 

You were certain that the prince had an obsession with those things, and teased him mercilessly for it. 

That morning, you had woken up before the sun crept over the horizon, collecting your charcoals, papers, and towels before sneaking deep into the Water Gardens. As a handmaiden to the prince, you woke up with the sun and worked until it fell--and so the early mornings, despite it being tinted with shadows, was the only time to practice any art. 

You were aware that you were growing a little rusty with your charcoals, anyway. You had spent too long solely on paints. 

And so you sketched until the sun began to rise, the navy sky fading into lavender as the plants around you rose from slumber. You had taken to drawing on an old, delicate writing table, hidden deep within the gardens from any prying eyes. Streaks of reds and greens still lined its edges from previous spills, despite how much you tried to clean it. Its owner didn’t seem to mind.

You were well into your second attempt at rendering a nearby flower when a hand on your shoulder had you jumping, the charcoal scratching an ugly line across the page before tumbling from your hands and shattering against the ground. 

“. . . I suppose I should have warned you,” a warm, familiar voice called, and you cut off your curses as soon as they began. “Though, you _were_ using my desk.” 

“Oberyn,” you breathed, turning slightly in your chair to face him. Truth be told, you had expected it to be another servant--or a guard, perhaps. Not _Oberyn_ , who was nearly fulfilling a miracle in being awake this early. Of his own volition, no less. 

He looked to still be in his sleepwear, dressed in loose trousers with a thin shawl draped over his shoulders. Much to your surprise, he was quite unkempt, and his hair was ruffled and tossed in waves as if he had just woken. 

It did nothing good for your imagination. Or your conscience. 

“I . . . I thought you were to remain in the capital until this afternoon,” you eventually spoke. And you hoped he didn’t notice how you had to force the words out--or that you were already fidgeting, warmth filling your face as you met his gaze. You were never more grateful that it was still dim outside—that he couldn’t see how much he affected you. 

“Agh, my brother can handle the rest,” he replied, waving a flippant hand through the air. He tore his gaze from yours to the broken charcoal atop the cobblestone. 

“I’m sorry to have frightened you,” he admitted--though his voice held a hint of amusement that you knew he tried to keep buried. You were _very_ much aware of how humorous he found your skittishness. 

A laugh bubbled past your lips as you slid from the chair to the ground, picking up as many pieces as you could. Oberyn was quick to help—quick to drop to his knees, leaning over you and remaining close enough that you _knew_ something like this wasn’t proper--

“I’ll purchase you another,” he promised, seemingly unaware of your heating skin as he dropped the last remaining fragments onto your palm. A frown graced his lips, and you knew he was preparing to apologize. You were quick to stop him.

“Abso _lutely_ not,” you chided, pointing a single, charcoal-blackened finger towards him. His brows rose. 

“I still have another drawer full of vines from your last trip,” you explained. Standing, you were quick to drop the pieces into a box next to the others before grasping a towel close by. You were keenly aware of his eyes on you as you stepped around his kneeling form, dipping the towel into a nearby pond before returning. 

“Besides,” you said, waiting until he stood to reach for his dirtied hand, “that piece was growing dull anyway.” You winked. 

A man of unyielding passion, Oberyn was rarely secretive with his emotions—nor his opinions, for that matter. He had made it _very_ obvious on many occasions how much he liked your little teasings, rare they may be. And you couldn’t help it—after nearly a decade of being in his presence, his flirts were bound to rub off on you. 

But that’s all they were: flirts. Passing fancies, flashes of attraction that fell through your fingers like coastal sand. Something that you cherished, _dearly_ , but never allowed to grow further. 

He had invited you to bed many times before—something that wasn’t unusual. And years ago, when you were childish and fueled by simpleminded passion, you would have accepted without a second thought. 

But now he had your heart wrapped around his thumb, and your soul was draped across his shoulders. And the thought of being just another warm body, one that would fade away in the sunrise, nearly tore you in two. 

Eventually, Oberyn seemed to give up. Your continued rejections rang loud and clear. 

You couldn’t help but loathe yourself for it. 

Now, though, your mutual flirtations had soothed into something akin to a friendly gesture. And Oberyn seemed to enjoy it nonetheless, which made his responding boyish grin unsurprising. 

“As my handmaiden so wishes,” he teased. You tsked at him.

You didn’t notice that you were still holding him until then, his palm facing the sky as you cupped the back of his hand with your own. His calloused fingertips were blackened with charcoal remnants—and so you gently scrubbed at his hand with the damp towel, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. You hoped—prayed, even—that he couldn’t see his effect on you.

For a moment, you both remained silent, simply basking in the early morning quiet, listening to the distant birds chirping and the wind passing through the trees. The autumn air was relatively chill—a stark difference from the man in front of you, whose hand was humming with warmth and whose body was radiating heat that could likely outmatch that of a furnace. 

He still smelt of sea salt and rich berries, a familiar scent that you had grown a particular fancy for after all these years. It somehow, oddly enough, had grown into a comforting, _homey_ smell for you. You tried not to think about it. 

“Why are you awake, if I may ask?” you questioned quietly. You could feel his stare on the crown of your head, omnipresent and soothing. 

Out of the corner of your vision, you saw his chest shake as he chuckled. “Would it scandalize you if I said that I wanted to see you?” 

You quirked a brow. “You see me nearly every day, Oberyn. I’ll be around later this afternoon,” you pointed out. It was then that you finished cleaning his hand, his fingers pink and raw as they lowered to his side. You looked up to match his gaze--but where you had expected amusement, there was . . . somberness. Hesitation.

You watched silently as he sucked in a slow, heavy breath. And then he straightened, the vulnerability emanating from him fading into a quiet reservation as he began to walk backwards. You felt the warmth from his body recede from yours as soon as he took the first step. You wished you weren’t so affected by it. 

“Walk with me,” he beckoned, stopping at the edge of a cobblestone trail that disappeared into the brush. He waited until you were near to begin walking again, his hands clasped loosely behind his back as he stared ahead. He seemed . . . _off_.

You honed in on his mannerisms almost immediately--the tightness of his shoulders, the tenseness in his jaw, the way he picked at the skin of his thumb behind his back. Something was wrong, and it gnawed at him. 

“Something happened in Sunspear yesterday, didn’t it,” you concluded, eyeing him as he reached out to brush his hand against a nearby palm leaf. 

You heard him chuckle quietly. A small smile grew on his lips as he lowered his hand to his side. “Nothing ever escapes you, my dove.”

_Dove_ \--something he had called you for as long as you could remember. Years ago, you had summoned up the courage to question him about it--after all, he had never given that particular pet name to anyone else. In response, he had only shrugged.

_You’re my peace in this wretched world,_ he had said nonchalantly. _An olive branch amidst poisoned thorns._ And then he extended a berry to you and continued on--as if his words didn’t move you, didn’t shake you down to your very core. 

_You soothe me_ , he had admitted.

You weren’t sure when he began giving that name a possession--“ _my_ dove _._ ” You supposed it was something that he began to slip in without your notice. Perhaps it was because you referred to him as your prince, and he only saw fit to return the favor. You never questioned him on it. 

_His_ dove.

His. 

You liked the way that sounded. 

Moments passed, the seconds dragging along the heels of your feet like knotted threads as Oberyn continued to remain silent. A glance in his direction told you everything: he was conflicted, his eyes lowered and face taut with apprehension. In public settings, he was skilled at wiping his face clean of any emotion--but not with you. Never with you.

You were about to speak up, your hand raising to brush his arm, when the words slipped past his lips. 

“I spoke with Doran yesterday evening,” he said, his hands coming to his font as he fiddled with his ring. And then a smile cracked at his lips. “Well, I suppose it was _he_ who spoke _to_ me.” 

Unbidden anxiety pooled in your stomach, and your heart fluttered violently in your chest. “It wasn’t about anything you’ve done, surely,” you hoped. He flashed you a cheeky smile at your comment--he knew how troubled you often became whenever something disturbed him. 

“No, no,” he soothed. “Though, I suppose it’s about what I _haven’t_ done that’s so concerning to him.” 

The two of you slowed to a stop in front of a shallow pool, the water’s reflection bathing you in lavender light. At your side, you heard Oberyn sigh. 

“He wishes for me to marry,” he said quietly. 

Your heart stopped beating. 

“Though, in his defense, his reasons _are_ valid,” Oberyn continued, seemingly unaware of your locked knees and frozen lungs. “With Trystane being Doran’s only child and me having no legitimate heirs, it only makes sense for me to be wed.” Which was true. Though Oberyn loved his eight daughters, _dearly_ , it was impossible for them to inherit any titles. They were bastards--born of passion and love, yes, but still out of wedlock. And obeying the line of succession through legitimate heirs was the one rule Dorne wouldn’t stretch.

Still, the idea of Oberyn marrying made you sick to your stomach. 

You hated how selfish it was.

For a moment, you felt yourself swaying, your locked knees making you woozy. You almost considered letting yourself stumble--perhaps the coolness of the pool would shock your senses into working again. 

It took quite some time for you to force your tongue to work. “. . . Do you agree with him?” you asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. Trying to prove to him, to _yourself_ , that you weren’t bothered. That the selfish, greedy part of you wasn’t petrified at the mere idea of Oberyn being married off. 

You weren’t necessarily sure it worked. 

Oberyn trained his eyes on the pool, on the lilypads swaying in the autumn breeze. “I must confess that I have been considering it for quite some time,” he admitted, the words slowly falling from his lips to the cobblestone below. “I think that after so many years . . .” 

You watched as he fell silent, his jaw working as he chewed on his thoughts. His eyes skimmed past the tree line into the quiet air beyond. You wondered where he went, what was swirling around so heavily within his mind. 

“I think I would like something permanent,” he said.

He had mentioned to you once before how he was used to people coming and going in his life--lovers, friends, family. Back then, he wasn’t necessarily perturbed by it, but recently you began to see him . . . hesitating. Retreating to the brothels less often, choosing instead to spend more time between the Water Gardens and the Old Palace. Traveling more often to visit Ellaria and his youngest four daughters in their Lemonwood estate, and writing poetry to his older daughters in the West. Spending more time with _family_. 

He was still fiery, passionate with a heart of molten gold. But now, as you took him in, you noticed how much he had . . . _soothed._ The roughness in him, though still with its sharp edges, had begun to grow quieter. _Calmer._ A little more willing to lean into the ocean tide, rather than pull against it. 

So to you, it wasn’t necessarily surprising to hear him admit it. 

But the confession still stung. 

Oberyn noticed your silence, your frozen nerves, almost immediately. “It’s not something that will be happening immediately,” he added. “Doran’s not one to coerce me into an arranged marriage, after all. Not to mention that I haven’t necessarily _agreed_ to it yet.” 

“Though you will,” you spilled out--and immediately bit your tongue. The words alone left a bitter taste in your mouth--though you knew how self-centered it was. If Oberyn wished to be married, then who were you to stop him? He was a _prince,_ a royal with a deep-rooted soul who deserved unending happiness. He was your _friend_. 

And at the end of the day, you were a smallfolk, a commoner with no surname and no status. You were no one. _Nothing_. 

You had no right to want to claim him as your own. 

Oberyn looked at you curiously, an eyebrow raising as you avoided his gaze. You could hear the gears in his head turning, clicking back and forth as he processed your words. 

“You’re upset,” he realized. And then you watched as confusion marred his face, his brows scrunched and face taut--

“No, not in the slightest,” you corrected, raising your palms to face him. You couldn’t have him thinking that you were so selfish, so sinister enough to deny him _happiness_ \--

“It just . . . caught me off guard, I suppose,” you excused, the words partly truthful. “I didn’t expect you to . . .”

“Want to settle?” Oberyn finished, a peculiar glint in his eye. And then he chuckled. “If I’m honest with myself, I wouldn’t have expected myself to, either,” he admitted. 

“. . . But it happened,” you whispered. A small smile lifted the corners of your mouth. 

In response, a warm grin fell upon his own. “But it happened,” he repeated. The words dripped from his mouth like honey--he seemed _content_. Settled. 

And if he was at peace, if he was _happy_ , that’s all that mattered to you. Even if it tore your heart up in the process. 

What worth was a hollowed heart in the eyes of the sun, anyway?

“I’m happy for you,” you confessed, the words soft and honest. And you were. You _were_. 

Oberyn seemed settled at that, and his lips parted as he began to respond. But a noise cut him off--you heard your name being called from somewhere amongst the trees, distant and echoing. From the main house, you realized. You had forgotten how far away you both were. 

The voice shouted for you again, and it was only then did you recognize its owner: Kaegan, one of the estate’s chefs--and your chambermate. 

“You’re being summoned rather early,” Oberyn commented, turning to face you once again. 

“I promised I’d help in the kitchens today,” you shrugged, slowly stepping away back down the path. You could feel the separation from him like a tangible thing, the warmth from him fading from your skin further with each retreating step.

You began to turn on your heel and shot him a grin over your shoulder. “Besides,” you smirked, “a certain royal’s name day is soon, and his love for celebrations is throwing the planners into a frenzy.” 

Oberyn’s responding laugh echoed in your ears long after you walked away. 

☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼

“. . . There’s a throng of newer servants that have just arrived from Sunspear,” Kaegan was saying, having listed off an overwhelming amount of preparatory tasks as he chopped up a handful of berries. You both were in the main kitchens, you having long since stolen a rickety stool to sit and watch as he worked. A handful of kitchen staff were bustling around you--and you prayed that the housekeeper wouldn’t spot you and berate you for abandoning your work.

Your brows lowered. “The celebration is at the Old Palace, though. Why would they come _here_?”

Keagan turned as you spoke, grabbing a bowl from behind him before swiveling back on his heel. He looked _smug_.

Kaegan was a spry one, rising at the first light of dawn and working past his scheduled shift until the night fell. He had worked in the Water Gardens longer than you had, having taken on a scullion’s role in his youth and had eventually risen through the kitchen ranks. You had shared your quarters with him since you first arrived--something that perturbed him at first, but it eventually smoothed over. You hadn’t left his side since. 

“The prince organized a switch in our staff for that evening,” he answered with a smile. “He’s having some palace staff manage the estate while we all prepare for and attend the festivities in the city. We’ll be traveling in three days.” 

You stared at him. “And I didn’t know this?” You were his _handmaiden_ , after all, and it was imperative that you knew these sort of things--

Keagan scoffed. “Prince Oberyn made preparations to take you with him anyway, what with you being his favorite and all.” You rolled your eyes--but, truth be told, he _had_ asked you a few days prior to attend with him. Though in your defense, he explained that it was because he had a distaste for the chamberlains at the palace. 

_They’re too . . . stiff_ , _timid,_ he had said. _They flinch at conversation_.

You weren’t aware that it was an _excuse_ , that he had something bigger planned--but, well, it was _Oberyn_ you were talking about. You should have seen it coming. 

Leaning forward, you rested your elbows on the countertop and hummed. “He’s full of surprises, isn’t he,” you mumbled. You tried to swallow back the warmth that was filling you to the brim. 

You wondered why Oberyn hadn’t told you of his plans--perhaps because he wanted to surprise you, for you to be confused as to why the rest of the servants were packing alongside you before explaining it all with a grin. 

But you knew he didn’t do it to please you. He did it because he was kind, thoughtful, and he wanted to treat the staff with a festive evening that they would have never attended otherwise. He did it because he _cared_.

A small word, heavy and fluttering, echoed within your chest. You stuffed it down before it managed to crawl up into your thoughts.

In front of you, Kaegan clicked his tongue. “Daydreaming again,” he called out softly--something that he did often. You had a nasty tendency to get lost in your own head quite frequently. Kaegan was quick to pull you back to ground level.

He slid the bowl in front of you then, filled with blueberries and de-stemmed strawberries. “Back to work,” he said with a wink. And you wondered if he knew more than he let on, if he was aware of every thought about the prince that passed through your mind. 

Knowing him, he probably did. He had a knack for picking up on those sorts of things. 

You had just managed to stand and grasp the bowl of berries, words of farewell bubbling on your lips, before another housemaid scrambled in.

She seemed out of breath, her chest heaving as she held a single envelope in her hand. Had her appearance not looked pristine, you would have taken her as frantic. 

Her doe-like eyes flicked over everyone in the room before landing on yours. 

“You weren’t in your chambers, Miss,” she called, pressing her free palm against the doorway. “A letter arrived this morning, sent from the outskirts of Godsgrace. It’s urgent.” 

Your heart stopped. 

_Godsgrace_.

You haven’t heard that name since . . . 

“Bring it to her rooms. She’ll read it there,” Kaegan answered, his voice clipped and sharp--and for that you were grateful. You were certain that your mouth was frozen shut, that your tongue had shrunk back and tied itself into knots. You were certain that you couldn’t _breathe_. 

The girl hesitated for a moment longer, but eventually disappeared down the hallway when Kaegan gave another sharp look. He remained silent while you sank back into the chair, your eyes vacant. 

Godsgrace. _Home._

Well, not home any longer. That place felt more like a prison, with walls that suffocated you and curtains that blocked out the sun. 

It was a place that felt like _hell_. 

“You don’t need to respond,” Kaegan offered. His voice was soft, soothing, running over you like warm honey. It was enough to calm you--slightly. 

Other than knowing who resided there, Kaegan was unaware of exactly why you loathed that city so much. No one did--and, if you were honest with yourself, you wanted to keep it that way. 

But despite knowing little, he had witnessed your reactions on more than one occasion. It wasn’t long before he understood just how much hearing that name affected you.

_Godsgrace_. 

You flipped that word over in your head, twisting it on its side and repeating it until it no longer felt poisonously bitter in your mouth.

You managed to suck in enough breath to speak again. “. . . I’ll think about it,” you scraped out. 

_I’ll think about it_.

But you were already certain you knew the answer.


	2. Chapter 2

Oberyn knew something was off the minute you stepped into his chambers. 

He had chosen to spend the early afternoon in relative quiet, having taken a stack of books and paperwork back to his rooms instead of remaining in his study. You had found him lounging on the chaise nearest to the balcony, laying on his side and facing the breeze coming through the open doorway. He was skimming through a book on the various Westeros climates--if the ink illustrations on the pages told you anything. 

The room was silent save for the occasional scrape of moving paper. He was alone, the room being completely void of any other servants or royals. Quiet, peaceful--something that, over time, you noticed he had begun to enjoy. To  _ prefer _ .

Another new thing. 

At your entrance, his eyes flicked up from the book to meet your gaze. His lips quirked at the bowl of berries in your hand, to the basket of dusters and fresh sheets held in the other. For a moment, he simply watched as you stared at him with your raised brows--and then realization struck, and he chuckled.

“I take it you discovered my plans,” he concluded, slowly sitting up as he set the book to the side. 

Your stubbornness faded as soon as he spoke and shifted into something akin to playful amusement. You couldn’t help it--it was hard to pretend in front of your prince. “You only kept it from me because you wanted to see me flustered,” you pointed out, stepping further into the room. You set the bowl onto his bedside table and the basket at your feet and noted the pristinely made bed. He must have been absent last night--either at the brothels or still at Sunspear. If you were honest, either was rather probable. 

“Your reactions when I surprise you are quite charming, though,” he admitted. A quick glance in his direction showed you the grin that was plastered onto his face, and you rolled your eyes. 

“Oberyn, my dear, you will be my demise,” you sighed. You couldn’t fight your own smile anymore--and though your back was turned, you knew he could hear it in your voice. 

You heard him stand as you began to fold back the comforter, hear his bare feet padding toward you. And you wondered if he could hear your heartbeat falling in time with his steps, slow and concise and so smoothly that it almost  _ hurt _ . 

“And you will be mine,” he chuckled, so softly that you barely caught the words. When he appeared at your side, his hands reaching forward to take the duvet from your own, you pretended that you didn’t hear it--that the words drifted to the floor instead, scattering on the rug like parchment. 

And in that moment, your chest began to hurt. Your mind was spinning in loops, but you couldn’t help it--because you knew you were thinking too much, overanalyzing the tone of his voice when you shouldn’t be. But you could have sworn those words meant  _ something-- _

No.  _ No _ . He was teasing. Nothing more, nothing less.

And so you changed the subject to something lighter--something  _ easier _ . 

“I  _ am _ your handmaiden for a reason, you know. You don’t have to do my duties for me,” you jested. And then you reached to unclasp his fingers from the thin bedcover, noticing how he eyed you with a raised brow. 

He waited until you grasped his hand fully to move, tugging both of your hands back until they were held aloft between you both. You noticed how he held you lightly--in case you were uncomfortable, in case you wanted to pull back.

You didn’t. 

“I want to, my dove,” he insisted. Gently, quietly, the words falling from his lips like a plea. You knew it was because he didn’t want to sit idle--he loathed doing so, hated seeing you do the work while he could only watch. If you were in public, you would have brushed him off, explaining how a prince shouldn’t have to lift a finger. But now, in the calming quiet of his room, it was just you and him. No titles, no status, just . . .  _ you _ . 

And however foolish it was, you wished it could have always been like that. 

It was then that you felt the air between you both grow tangible--thick and heavy, as if you both were buried in sea-dampened sand. You heard your breathing flow from your mouth in choppy, trembling waves, before you found the strength to control it. 

“Alright,” you acquiesced. You forced yourself to chuckle and grin, too, just for good measure. Just to brush away the urge to fall apart at his feet, so you could pretend you never wanted to in the first place. 

Stepping away, you retreated to the other end of the bed and tugged at the comforter further. Oberyn matched your movements, helping you replace the sheets--and you ignored how he kept glancing at you with a curious gaze, likely putting the pieces of your odd behavior together--

“I presume you’ll be leaving later than the staff?” you questioned--hoping, praying, that he would take the bait. 

For a moment Oberyn paused, simply watching you as you worked. He wasn’t dim--he knew exactly what you were doing--but he brushed it off anyways. “Ellaria and my daughters will be arriving at the palace the morning of my name day, so I’m to arrive the night before to prepare.” 

You raised a brow in surprise. “All of them?” As far as you were aware, Obara and Nymeria were off somewhere in the North, Syene was visiting Starfall, and Tyene was in Hellholt studying poisons. To travel would take each of them at least a few days, perhaps  _ weeks _ \--

A soft smile grew on Oberyn’s lips. “Yes,” he said softly. “All of them.” 

It was a special occasion indeed, then. The last time all of his daughters had been together, in one room . . . 

Well, you couldn’t remember. 

You watched the glint in his eye begin to shimmer as his expression grew gentle. Just the thought of his daughters alone was enough to calm him down, enough to soothe his restless mind. He loved each of them deeply--even a stranger could tell, given how he would light up the moment they were mentioned. 

If he had the strength, he would have given each of them the ground you stood on, the seas beyond the shore, the clouds littering the sky. He would have given them the world, if he could. 

You had only seen his oldest four daughters in passing, many years ago. His younger daughters, though, were an entirely different story. Your heart grew warm at the thought of seeing them again--their giggles, their fluttering skirts, their mischievous grins.

“I’m making arrangements for you to remain here after the staff leave, so you will travel with me to the palace in four days’ time,” Oberyn continued, mirroring your movements as you smoothed out the sheets. “You’ll be traveling with my escorts.”

For the most part, you had expected this--at the end of the day, your duty was to tend to  _ him _ , and him only. But you had assumed that you would be traveling with other servants in another caravan, not with  _ him _ \--

You opened your mouth to argue--he was wanting you, a  _ servant _ , to ride in his royal escort after all--but the words fell flat on your tongue. You weren’t in the mood to protest--not while he was standing in front of you, on the other side of the bed,  _ radiating _ joy. You couldn’t help but bask in it.

You watched with a fluttering chest as he sat back down on his chaise, palming the book once more as he grinned. 

“You seem content,” you whispered. Warmth flooded through you at that--he was  _ happy,  _ at peace with his place in the world. That was all you needed. 

His gaze flicked up to you at that. Underneath the warmth of his gaze, you found yourself unable to move. 

“In less than a fortnight, my family will be together again,” he mused, shrugging his shoulders. “That is all a man could wish for.” 

_ My family will be together _ . 

Family.

You couldn’t help that your mind immediately ran to the letter--somewhere inside your chambers, likely tucked underneath the door for you to grab as soon as you walked in. Likely old, and crinkled, and quickly written. Likely from your mother.

Your smile must have dropped for a second too long, exposing everything underneath--because Oberyn immediately picked up on it, and he paused. His smile dimmed.

And though you felt guilty, not wanting to sour the mood, you couldn’t manage to keep up a facade. Thinking about home, about that shabby house back in Godsgrace, left you with a bitter taste in your mouth and a tightening in your chest that didn’t seem to fade. 

“Something’s wrong,” Oberyn whispered. Softly, tentatively, and purposefully quiet. So that if you really wanted to, you could pretend that you never heard it in the first place. 

But you could never lie to him, even if you tried. Not when your heart was already in his hands. Not when he could likely already feel the way it stuttered. 

You tried to busy yourself with work, then, dragging your feet to the foot of the bed to collect the dirtied sheets. “It’s nothing to worry about, I promise you,” you shrugged, pairing it with a smile in hope to dissuade him. But Oberyn wouldn’t have it.

Slowly, as if approaching a frightened fawn, he rose to his feet, walking forward until he was at your side. He was close enough to where you could touch him if you wanted to--but he didn’t move further. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, make you shy away. 

“It’s not  _ nothing _ , my dove,” Oberyn chided. “Don’t belittle yourself so.” 

You lowered your head, pushing a breathy laugh past your lips out of sheer embarrassment. For a moment, you cursed yourself for letting your emotions shine through--but then you bit it back. This was  _ Oberyn _ you were speaking to. You were already stripped to the core in front of him. What would trying to build your walls up  _ now _ ever do? 

You knew he was aware of every thought racing through your head when he reached up, lightly brushing a crooked finger underneath your chin. Your breath caught as he lifted your face up to meet his gaze--but as soon as it came, the touch was gone. If your skin didn’t burn where his hand had been, you would’ve thought it had never happened in the first place. 

His eyes, honeyed and warm, were trained on you. His gaze flicked back and forth between your eyes--waiting, watching. 

“I received a letter from Godsgrace this morning,” you croaked, the words mumbled and pained. You hated what that name did to you--how it turned you into a child again, hungry and sunburned after you fled from that wretched town to Sunspear. You  _ hated _ it. 

Oberyn stilled. 

“I haven’t opened it yet, though,” you continued. You stared past his shoulder, at the sunlight streaming through the open balcony doors. All you wanted to do in that moment was  _ hide _ \--to lean into the crook of his neck and bury yourself in his tunic, to hold him until those nasty memories in your head began to fade.

In front of you, Oberyn let out a deep breath. He pursed his lips as he continued to watch you--his stare slowly dragging over your face, taking in every minute detail. 

“And you aren’t sure if you want to,” he finished. In that moment, you felt exposed--raw and bruised, as if he had dug into the deepest part of your soul and exposed it to the summer air.

Sometimes, you wondered if he knew you better than  _ you _ did yourself. 

“No,” you answered. “I don’t know if I do.” 

☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼

You stared at that letter until your eyes began to burn. 

True enough, the parchment had been pushed underneath your chamber doors earlier that day--so when you had stepped into your rooms after a late evening of preparation work, you had nearly forgotten about it. In that moment, you were grateful that you were alone. No one was there to see your hands shake, nor to see how you stumbled to your bed and crumpled the edges of the envelope from clutching it so tightly. 

_ My dearest (Y/N), _ it was labeled. 

You hadn’t heard that pet name before. 

The thought alone made you ache. Years ago, you had left so mercilessly, fleeing out the door as your mother spewed curses through her tears. And though you wanted to turn back,  _ desperately _ , you couldn’t. Not after what she had done--what she had been  _ willing _ to do. 

Perhaps if you had stayed, played along with a ring on your finger and a title to your name, your parents would have called you that name more often. 

And so you sat there, your mind running in circles of what  _ could have _ been, and you couldn’t even manage to open the wax seal. 

It was only after Khaegan entered your shared chambers did you find it in yourself to move. You hadn’t noticed how dark it had gotten until the door opened, revealing the lantern-lit hallway beyond. 

You watched with blank eyes as he stopped in the doorway, a single candle held in his hands. The flame danced across his ebony skin, the light just bright enough for you to see his scrunched brows and downturned lips. But he didn’t speak--one glance to the envelope in your hands, and he knew he didn’t need to. He merely walked towards you, lighting a candle on your bedside table, before setting his adjacent to it. The bed creaked as he sat across from you and braced his elbows on his knees.

“I can’t open it,” you croaked. 

He pursed his lips for a moment before speaking. “I know.”

And though he didn’t say the words, the quiet silence afterwards told you everything. 

You  _ needed _ to open it.

Deep down, you knew you needed some sort of closure. You needed to know whether your parents wished to mend the broken bridges you burned or to simply disown you for good. You couldn’t keep living like this, with somber thoughts and  _ what-if _ s always taunting you in the back of your mind. Haunting you constantly, like a dead soul chained to your feet.

And so in the flickering light of the candle, you broke open the seal and tugged out its neatly-folded contents. You couldn’t keep your hands from shaking, so you set the letter on your lap, unfolding it to reveal its ink-written words.

_ Our child,  _ it began _.  _ You swallowed, but forced yourself to continue on.

_ It has been . . . quite some time since we last spoke, and for that I hold many regrets. We both miss you, truly. We think of you often. _

_ You and I both know that there is no point to fill you with pleasantries. All you must know is that we are in need of your immediate return. Your father has had a terrible accident with the farming horses, leaving him with a ruined leg and an inability to work. Your funds, though appreciated, will no longer be enough. We’ve found another means of finance, however. For that, you must return home--or simply visit, at least. _

_ We both are in need of you desperately.  _ I  _ need you.  _

_ We beg of you, come home. _

  * _Mother._



You wanted to be angry.

You wanted to be  _ furious _ , to rip the parchment in two and burn its edges with the candle by your side. You wanted to sob, to scream, to do  _ something _ .

But all you could do was sit there, staring at your mother’s curled  _ M _ ’s and the way she so elegantly called you their  _ child _ , and listened to yourself freeze over. 

And as you folded the letter back up and slipped it into its envelope, you could only feel numb. 

You wanted to feel bitter--but if you dug down far enough, the only thing you could feel was  _ pity _ . Your father, the only one you were  _ close _ to in that household, had shattered his leg, and your mother was desperate enough to write. The few silver coins you could send, your pathetic means of recompense, would barely be enough for them to scrape by anymore.

_ My family will be together again _ , Oberyn had said. 

And though you wish you had the strength to turn away, you couldn’t leave your family behind.

_ You  _ were the one who left, after all. To leave them to their own damnation would be to guarantee your own.

Across from you, Khaegan cleared his throat loudly enough to catch your attention. Your limbs felt heavy, and your body threatened to collapse to the floor, but you managed to raise your head.

“What is it?” he asked quietly. You were aware that he didn’t know much--but still, he knew  _ you _ . 

Slowly, you dragged your eyes up to meet his gaze.

“It’s from my mother,” you whispered, swallowing back the knot that was forming in your throat. In that moment, you felt like you were a child again, listening to your mother as she fell apart in desperation when you left for good.

You felt like you were a master’s puppet all over again. 

“I’m to return home tonight,” you said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my [writing tumblr](https://haildoodles-writing.tumblr.com/) for updates and more info on ASWSIE!


	3. Chapter 3

You arrived in Godsgrace the next morning.

It had taken a portion of your savings to convince the stablemen to lend you a sturdy horse fit for an overnight ride, and an even larger portion to keep them quiet about it. You knew that disappearing so quickly was forbidden, especially with someone of your position. It was something that any other servant could likely get away with--to vanish overnight and appear a few days later. But not you. 

Oberyn would know you were missing. 

Though you felt guilty, you knew him well enough to know that he’d be worried, likely willing to pull information out of every servant and guard until he knew your whereabouts. And you knew that if he was aware of your departure to  _ Godsgrace _ of all places, he would mount his own steed and chase after you the moment he discovered your intentions. 

So you packed a small satchel with food, water, and a change of clothes, and as you slipped the thickest cloak you had over your shoulders, you told Khaegan your excuse: that you left to Sunspear, purchasing flowers and sweets from the market for Oberyn’s name day. 

You hoped it was convincing enough. 

For the most part, the ride was relatively simple. The steed--one of the palace’s finest, you were told--was built for longer journeys, so he had no issue traveling the dusty, barren trail to Godsgrace. You were glad you chose to leave in the dead of night--though exhausting, the air was fairly chilly. You preferred it over riding in the sweltering heat of day. 

And so the steed beneath you sprinted down the trail, past distant shadows of neighboring towns and pit stops until you arrived. 

To label Godsgrace as a city would be too merciful. The place could barely constitute as a  _ town _ . A village would have been more accurate--but the people that lived there were much too prideful to stoop so low. They were all too narcissistic for their own good--especially the more noble class, who flaunted their money with intricate housing and elaborate parties. 

The rich somehow even pooled together enough money to construct a citadel, hiding the drab buildings and markets from any onlookers. Within it, they filled their streets with blooming flowers and the smell of sweet bread--but no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t bury its grime. They couldn’t bury the bitterness it brought you, threatening to swallow you whole as its walls came into view. 

You couldn’t help the weight that settled in your chest the moment you passed through the citadel gates. 

It didn’t take much longer to arrive at the entrance of a familiar alleyway, tucked behind the main square and its neighboring market. It looked exactly the same as you had left it: dusty and unkempt, as if it hadn’t been given proper care in years. 

Your parent’s home hadn’t changed much, either.

It was small, made from sandstone and mortar with a rotting wooden door for an entrance. Overhead, pieces of clothing were draped over a rope, tied between the house’s upper window and an adjacent home across the alleyway. The cloth coverings draped over the ground floor window were shut, with only musty darkness visible through the slits. The house seemed relatively quiet, the only sound coming from the similar homes on either side.

You hoped it was empty.

Though you managed to slide off the steed’s back and tie him to a nearby post, it took you quite some time to muster up the courage to reach the front door. You couldn’t stop the shaking in your hands even if you tried. Your heart was beating much too fast--if you hadn’t leaned against the horse, you’re sure you would have collapsed. 

You couldn’t . . . you couldn’t go in. 

You couldn’t so much as look at the entryway  _ door _ , let alone step up to it. All that flashed through your mind was memories of running, of fleeing through the citadel gates on foot as your mother  _ screamed _ . . .

You felt like a coward for it. 

Instead, you decided to busy yourself, choosing to check the satchels buckled on the horse’s side for its contents. You knew what was within like the back of your hand--you checked it thrice before you left, anyway. But it was something to keep you occupied, keeping you from turning around and facing your self-inflicted fate like the yellow-bellied craven you were--

You jumped when you heard your name. 

Spinning on your heel, you turned towards the voice’s owner--to the figure standing in the now-open doorway, barely visible in the morning light.

Your mother. 

You nearly didn’t recognize her. Her hair was graying, black strands fading into salt and pepper at its roots. Wrinkles adorned her skin, and her clothes were tattered and worn--threadbare in some places, too. And her face . . .

She managed to school her expression much more quickly than you could, her shock melting into something akin to relief. “You’re here” she whispered. The sound of her voice, bleeding with relief, sent shockwaves through your system. It was something you had blocked out from your mind, not allowing yourself to remember--

You felt  _ so _ , so guilty.

“Mother,” you greeted, your voice childish and weak. You didn’t grant yourself the comfort of shallow pleasantries. You both knew you didn’t need them, anyway.

If you looked hard enough, you could have sworn you saw your mother’s eyes glass over. But as quickly as it formed, she stifled her emotions and cleared her throat. “Come in,” she ushered. “Please.” And then she stepped back into the house, holding the door open silently. 

For a moment, you paused. 

You could feel your own heart in your throat, your exhales releasing in choppy waves--because there you were, on the precipice on your own fate, with your mother holding the door--

And though you wished you could hide--to flee back to the Water Gardens, to  _ Oberyn _ \--and pretend that nothing had ever happened, you knew that you couldn’t. Had you turned back now, you would forever wonder what would have been--what relationships could have been mended. 

And you would forever loathe yourself for leaving your family to rot. 

Swallowing your guilt, you put one foot in front of the other until you passed the threshold. An uneasy breath fled through your lips as you were immediately hit with the stifling warmth of the building--of the memories that hit you like a ton of bricks, threatening to suffocate you.

At that moment, you were glad that nothing in your parent’s house looked the same. You wouldn't have been sure if you would have stayed if it did. 

“Your father is upstairs,” your mother supplied, having cracked the door behind you. And then she passed by you silently, moving to lead you towards the stairs--but then she paused. Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly, as if she was chewing on her words.

“You . . . you look happy,” your mother said. “Healthy.” 

And in that moment, the stark difference between you both finally settled in. You were much better off than your family, you knew--but you never fully  _ processed _ it, not until you were standing in your old home and seeing how  _ broken _ everything was. The furniture was scratched, the goblets chipped, the windows covered with tattered cloth . . . and there you were, in fine silks and with a full belly, standing amongst it all. 

You thought the spare coins you sent would have helped them more. 

“I am,” you admitted, finally looking your mother in the eye. “I am.” 

At that, she gave a warm smile--tentative, but still honest. 

You had forgotten what her smile looked like. 

Ushering you in further, she led you up the rickety wooden stairs to the second level. There was only one room, the stairway leading directly to a single door: your parent’s room. You never had your own bedroom growing up--you remember your family taking the spare food out of the pantry to set up a bed and desk for you, giving you spare pieces of paper and a pencil for when you wanted to sketch--

You swallowed thickly, cursing yourself. Now wasn’t the time for recollections. 

The door at the top of the stairs was cracked slightly, and your mother pushed it open as she shuffled through. Inside, the air was slightly musty, with bands of morning light shining through the eastern window. Piles of folded blankets and baskets full of clothes were pushed against the walls, leaving a wide space open around the bed--

Where your father laid. 

He was partially obscured by his own leg, protected by thick gauze and splints and propped up on a handful of pillows. But when he shuffled around, noticing your mother’s entrance, he finally looked up and met your gaze. 

You watched with bated breath as he stared at you, frozen, as if not quite believing you were there. You didn’t necessarily blame him.

“Papa,” you breathed, feeling your throat swell up as you took a step forward. For a moment, you held yourself back--out of fear or guilt, you weren’t sure. But then a grin broke out on his face and he raised a hand in greeting, and you flew to his side. You tried to remain distanced from his bedside, not wanting to risk jostling his wounded leg--but he didn’t care for that. Instead, he patted the mattress near his hip and waited until you sat down to reach for your hand.

You didn’t know you were crying until he reached up, wiping the calloused pad of his thumb across your cheek. 

“You’ve grown,” he said softly, and you noticed how his own eyes were watering. Through your own tears, you let out a choked laugh. 

“It’s been nearly a decade, papa,” you chuckled. But then your words hit you like a blow to the chest--a  _ decade _ . 

Your smile dropped.

You hadn’t seen your family in nearly a  _ decade _ .

Noticing your newfound frown, your father shifted--but instead of speaking to you, he called towards your mother, still standing in the doorway. “Fetch us some breakfast, will you?”

You didn’t turn around to see her response, only stared at your father until you heard her retreating steps. For a minute, he watched the space where your mother once was, waiting. And then--

“I know what you’re thinking, little bird,” he said, focusing his attention back on you. His voice was soft--it always had been. It was something you missed dearly. 

“I--”

“ _ Never _ apologize for what you’ve done,” your father insisted. “You left because you had to. We . . . we should have trusted you.” 

You felt your chest seize. “What do you mean?”

At that, your father’s gaze dropped. 

“We were foolish,” he admitted, “your mother and I. After your brother married, we were desperate for stability. So we grasped at anything we could find, and we never considered  _ your _ feelings in the matter.” 

You opened your mouth to interject, but he continued on. “And don’t apologize for the coins, either,” he said. “You . . . we don’t deserve your kindness.”

Your vision grew blurry. 

After all you had done, after years of trying to find some sort of recompense--your parents, or at least your  _ father _ , forgave you. Not only that, but they didn’t even blame you in the  _ first _ place.

“Why didn’t you write?” you croaked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your father released a heavy breath. “We were certain you loathed us,” he said. 

“. . . I don’t,” you confessed. And you didn’t. 

Though the memories you had were bitter, and though you didn’t completely regret leaving the way you did, you understood their desperation. You could never hate them, even if you tried. If anything, the anger and hurt that you let fester for so long grew a gaping hole--hollowed and deep, and completely exhausting to focus on. 

Yes, you felt angry. You felt betrayed.

But there, as you sat by your father’s beside and stared at his broken expression, you knew you wanted to mend the relationships you had abandoned. Not to fix it completely--you knew that likely wouldn’t ever be possible--but to let it heal, slowly. No matter what scars were left behind. 

As if your words broke a dam within him, your father hunched over, letting a deep sigh escape from his lips. “I’m . . . I’m grateful you’re here,” he told you. “Truly.”

In that moment, you thought of Oberyn--of his love for his family, of his complete and utter adoration for the daughters he raised. Of his joy in being able to see them all together again. 

“I am too,” you whispered. 

“You look healthy,” he added, taking in your frame--at your neat clothes, your well-kept hair, your sun-warmed skin. “Happy, too. The palace seems to be doing you well.”

Your face warmed. “It is,” you admitted. “The staff are incredibly kind. The princes are very gracious in their interactions, too.” 

Your father took in your bashful expression--but, to your surprise, he sombered. “There isn’t anyone you are involved with, correct?”

You paused. It was as if the mood had flipped on a dime, the air stilling around you both. “No,” you said with furrowed brows, “there isn’t. Why do you ask?”

In front of you, your father swallowed thickly. “I--”

At the sound of footsteps trotting up the stairs, you both silenced. Your mother came in quietly, setting a tray of some bread and a few bowls of stew on the other side of the bed. She didn’t look you in the eye as she handed you your portion of food--you knew why.

She was ashamed.

“Thank you,” you whispered, scooping up a spoonful of broth and potatoes into your mouth. It didn’t taste particularly  _ good _ \--you could tell that your mother tried to hide the blandness with an overabundance of spices. But still, she made it. She was  _ trying _ .

You were always much closer with your father than her. Even before you left, you couldn’t remember a time when you and your mother were . . .  _ open _ with each other. You eventually realized that it was because you were so incredibly alike that your mother couldn’t handle it. So she closed herself off--became snappy and demanding, pulling you around like a puppet. You never understood why. 

But now, even as remnants of pain crawled up your throat, you pushed it back down and smiled.

Your mother didn’t respond, and so you ate in relative silence as she helped your father sit up to eat. He hissed in pain as the movement shot down to his leg--you noticed how much more swollen it was compared to his left leg, despite being supported by rudimentary splints and dressed tightly. 

“What happened?” 

Your mother waited until your father was settled again before answering. “The horses at the stables got spooked,” she told you, a deep frown marring her face. “Your father tried to push a few of the stableboys out of the way, but . . .”

“We don’t know if I’ll be able to use it again,” your father breathed. “Might as well amputate it, if it doesn’t heal straight.” He seemed unbothered by the mere idea of losing a limb--but after a lifetime of knowing him, you knew it was a just a ploy. It was his way of coping. 

Your mind immediately jumped back to the letter.  _ We’ve found another means of finance _ , it had said. And evidently, it involved you.

Resting your emptied bowl on your lap, you breathed deeply. “What can I do to help?” you asked. Your voice came out more timid than you would have liked. 

Both of your parents froze. 

Your father was the first one to move, leaning forward slightly to set his bowl on the tray by your mother’s side. “Let us catch up first, little bird,” he said in an obvious attempt to soothe you. “We haven’t seen you--”

“What is it?” you cut off. Your stomach churned in anxiousness-- _ what were they stalling for? _

You could see your father gulp. His gaze flicked to your mother, whose own stoic expression was faltering. 

You shifted in your seat. “Mother?”

“We . . .” she hesitated, setting her own bowl down and inhaling shakily. 

“With your father unable to work, we’ve been desperate,” she began. “We’ve looked over every possible option, and we’ve tried to avoid it, but--”

“ _ What _ ,” you bit out. You couldn’t stop your own voice from trembling out of pure anxiety.

“What is it?”

At that, your mother seemed to choke on her words. Your father was the one who took over--though he couldn’t meet your gaze.

“There’s a lord that lives on the outskirts of Sunspear, of whom we’ve become close friends,” he explained. “He’s aware of your position at the Water Gardens, and he’s in need of a wife--”

You froze. 

_ A wife _ . 

_ Wife _ .

He continued speaking, trying to explain away the situation and his reasoning for it--but you couldn’t focus any longer. You couldn’t  _ think _ , with that single word spinning inside your mind like some sick  _ joke _ \--

You stood up abruptly, ignoring the loud  _ crack _ of your bowl falling to the floor. 

“No,” you spat out, your tongue feeling like lead. 

Across the bed, your mother stood up herself, showing you her palms as if to soothe a frightened deer. “Please, you need to understand--”

“ _ No _ ,” you repeated.  _ No. No _ .

“You . . . you-you call me back and make me feel like we could  _ fix  _ this, only to sell me off again,” you seethed. Tears stung your eyes, blurring your vision--but you couldn’t break down. Not here, not  _ now _ \--

“Little bird,  _ please _ ,” your father pleaded. You couldn’t make out the expression on his face through your watery eyes, but you weren’t sure you wanted to.

“You too, Papa?” you whispered, your voice breaking. Years ago, he was willing to understand your side, and he wanted to  _ try _ \--

Your father bit his lip and bowed his head in shame. 

At that point, you grew desperate. “I’ll give you everything I earn,” you begged. “I-I’ll sell what I can, I’ll ask the housekeeper for more duties--”

“That won’t work,” your mother called softly. “This is the only way.”

At her voice, the grief that filled up inside of you ignited, twisting into pure, unadulterated  _ rage _ .

“How  _ dare you _ ,” you snapped, jabbing a finger at your mother. You took a single step back, then another, until you were pressed up against the wall. 

“How  _ dare  _ you remain silent for  _ years _ , and only call me back because you have another use of me,” you fumed. You couldn’t take it any longer--and so you turned, storming out the door and nearly stumbling down the stairs in your blind fury. You could hear the frantic footsteps of your mother racing after you, of her pleas that fell on deaf ears--

You reached the front door and threw it open when your mother fell silent. 

Softly, she called your name.

“Please, don’t leave,” she begged through her tears. “Believe me, we’ve tried  _ everything _ . Just . . . meet with him. That’s all I ask.” 

Slowly, you turned around, the back of your heels hitting the lip of the doorway as you took her in. She had collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, her face blotchy with tears. She looked . . . hopeless. Defeated.

As soon as your fury came, it faded, leaving you exhausted and grieving. And no matter how much you wished you could leave, to turn back around and never look back, you knew you couldn’t. 

You already did that seven years ago. 

You wouldn’t do it again.

So through your tears, through the anguish that had begun to eat you alive, you faced your mother and swallowed back your own selfishness.

“. . . I’ll consider it,” you promised.

☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼

You didn’t remember the ride back to the Water Gardens. 

You had left Godsgrace immediately after that conversation, fleeing the town as quickly as you could and stopping only when necessary. It was in the dead of night when you arrived back at the estate. 

You vaguely recalled returning the steed to the stableboys and wandering back into the palace. Though you knew the building by the back of your hand, you eventually found yourself lost, too disoriented to focus on where you were going.

_ Wife _ .

You played with the name for hours. 

To say that you wished to be married wouldn’t have been a lie. You had daydreams of one day receiving a last name, perhaps a title, with someone you loved. 

You just wished it would have been on your own terms. 

Eventually, you finally realized where you were--in a familiar corridor, a few halls down from the royal suites, near Oberyn’s rooms--

_ Oberyn _ .

You nearly choked on your own tears. 

On the journey home, emotion had seemed to escape you. It had become a frivolous thing, something unnecessary and out of reach. But now . . . 

Now, you thought of Oberyn--the one you had given your  _ soul _ to, the one who had been the reason of those childish daydreams of titles and surnames--

One day, you knew you would have to leave him. But you didn’t realize it could be so  _ soon _ .

Blindly, you stumbled towards the nearest wall and collapsed. You pulled your knees up to your chest, feeling the tears pour down your cheeks, and you wished you didn’t have to feel so  _ broken _ \--

Somewhere, towards the end of the corridor, you heard a pattering of footsteps that came to an abrupt halt.

“. . . Dove?”

The name sent a jolt through you.

You jumped to your feet in an instant, and you nearly choked on your own breath as you hastily wiped at your cheeks. 

“Oberyn,” you breathed. It came out much more shakily than you would have hoped.

Through the dim light leaking from the hallway sconces, Oberyn was rubbing at his eyes as if he had just woken from sleep. He was dressed in a thin tunic and trousers, though they seemed in disarray. 

At the sound of your voice, you could see Oberyn visibly calm, dropping his shoulders and releasing a breath that seemed too heavy--as if he had been holding it in for quite some time. He began to walk, then, taking long strides towards you in an instant. Fruitlessly, you hoped that he would remain far away enough to not see your reddened eyes.

“My dove, where have you been?” he began, his voice soft and soothing as he neared. “You disappeared without a word, I’ve been--”

The moment he was close enough to fully see your expression, his pace slowed. You could see his face melt from worry to confusion.

“What happened?” he asked, lengthening his strides until he was an arm’s length away. You couldn’t help but bow your head and cover your face in shame--but it was in vain, as Oberyn stepped closer and tugged your hands away by your wrists. 

“Are you hurt?” You watched as he flicked his gaze over your form in a hurry, searching for some sort of wound. Something sharp and fiery flashed in his eyes, as if the mere thought of you being harmed angered him to no end--

“No, no,” you whispered. “I’m fine, I promise.”

His gaze met yours, then, and his anger faded as quickly as it came. “What is it, then?” he prodded gently. You knew he wanted to find a solution, to fix up your mood as quickly as he could. He was one to search out answers for everything--he hated leaving something to fester and suffer on its own if he could prevent it. 

“I . . .” you chewed on the words and swallowed. You wanted to tell him everything that had happened, everything that your parents told you--and you knew that one day, you would. But now, the mere thought of explaining the day’s events  _ hurt _ . You couldn’t cough up the words, even if you tried.

Oberyn caught on immediately. 

“What can I do,” he asked, the words coming out like a plea. He looked pained--grievous _ ,  _ even--at your hopelessness, at his inability to cure it. 

_ Wife. _

The word clanged through you before you could stop it, ripping up your insides all over again. And your mind tortured with images of leaving, of being a lady at an estate with a title and a last name but one that wasn’t  _ his _ \--

Sensing your inner turmoil, Oberyn cupped your cheek, wiping away the tears that began to fall. His face was scrunched in pain. You knew that he had never seen you like this before, broken and grieving. 

You knew that this likely wouldn’t happen again. You knew that one day, the hand on your cheek would disappear for good, and that he’d be gone. 

When you told your mother that you’d consider their demands, you knew, deep down, that it was a lie. You didn’t have a choice--you were a grown woman, yes, but they still had some say in your decisions. They were gracious enough to let you go the first time, to give you a chance at coming up with your own means of finance and seeing where it took you. But now . . .

Now, even though they were offering you a choice again, you knew your answer. You couldn’t leave your parents to rot--and if marrying yourself off to some lordling was the way to save them, then so be it. You had given your soul away a long time ago, after all. What was the use in fighting against the tide?

“Tell me what to do,” Oberyn begged. And his voice was broken, the words strained--

You fell apart completely. 

You had spent so,  _ so _ long building up a barrier between you and him. To say it was for propriety’s sake would be merely an excuse. No, you did it to  _ protect _ yourself, because keeping him at an arm’s length at all times was so much easier than having him close. He had your heart, yes, but you couldn’t bear putting yourself through even more torture. 

But now, you would leave soon, and he would no longer be there to tease you or brush your arm in greeting. 

Now, that barrier didn’t matter anymore.

And so the walls that you had built up around yourself crumpled, toppling in on itself in complete silence--and you allowed it to fall. Because maybe, just this once, you would let Oberyn in. 

But that barrier you tore down left you bleeding and raw, and you let out a choked sob. 

“Just . . .  _ hold _ me,  _ please _ ,” you begged.

Your face crumpled and your hands reached up to grasp at his wrist in blind desperation. And Oberyn didn’t hesitate--he pulled you to him immediately and you collapsed against his chest, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He wrapped himself around you, pressing his hand against the small of your back and leaning his head against yours, and all you could sense was  _ him _ \--

Though your hiccuping sobs, you heard him whisper sweet nothings against the crown of your head. You couldn’t make out the words--but you felt the hum of it from his chest, felt his warm breath sweep over your hair as he spoke. Blindly, you clutched at his tunic with one hand and cupped the back of his neck with the other. In response, Oberyn only held you tighter.

He remained silent until you managed to control your breathing, waiting until your eyes had begun to dry and your hiccups lessened. But you couldn’t pull away from him--you didn’t want to. 

“Come here, my love,” he hummed softly, slowly leaning back enough to meet your gaze. “Let’s clean you up.” 

And then he was leading you down a familiar hallway, holding your hand in the crook of his arm as he brought you to his own chambers. Deep down, you knew something like this wasn’t proper--but you didn’t care. You were exhausted, drained to the marrow of your bones. All you wanted to do was  _ rest _ .

Even then, there was no point in worrying any longer. 

Neither of you spoke as he led you to his chaise. You weren’t aware of much as he moved about the room, but you didn’t try to be. You couldn’t find the energy within yourself to focus. 

Distant echoes of drawers opening and closing reached your ears--and then Oberyn appeared in front of you, kneeling to tug off your dust-covered boots and riding socks. At your side, you noticed that he had placed a pile of spare clothes on the edge of the chaise. Something to replace the tunic that stuck to you like second skin from a day’s worth of riding. 

“You don’t have to . . .” you trailed off. 

Oberyn tsked at you gently. “I want to,” he responded, and you both fell into a deep quiet again. Still, though, you could tell something was nagging at Oberyn, if the way he chewed on his lip and scrunched his brow told you anything.

You knew that he yearned for an explanation, a reason for the way you sobbed and held on to him so tightly. But still, he wouldn’t push. He wouldn’t demand anything from you.

“You know where I went,” you murmured--a quiet answer, a permission for him to ask you those questions he had held on a leash. 

Oberyn nodded, and a breathy laugh escaped from his lips. “Khaegan never was a skilled liar, my love,” he chuckled, but then his expression grew somber. “It wasn’t difficult to guess.” 

For a brief moment, you wondered if that new pet name was a simple trick of your mind, or if it was simply Oberyn getting caught up on his own words. But as soon as the thought came, it faded, slipping from your fingertips like blood red wine. 

You swallowed thickly. You were grateful that your exhaustion had gotten the better of you. It made it easier to forget, to be unable to recall your mother’s tears or the way you screamed in the emptiness of the desert on the ride home. It made it easier to just . . . float. 

“I . . .”

Oberyn hushed you then, reaching up to cup your cheek. He ran his thumb under your eye--over the tear stains that had just begun to dry. You couldn’t help but lean against his hand.

“Don’t fret over explaining now, my dove. You need to rest,” he told you. “We can talk when you’re ready.”

Your eyelids had begun to grow heavy then, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to fight it. At that point, you just wanted to collapse, to bury yourself in his warmth and finally  _ sleep _ .

Oberyn cracked a small smile. “Proves my point.”

He released your face and moved to stand, slowly backing away from you--but before he managed to step away completely, you reached out blindly to grasp at his hand. 

“Stay.” 

It fell from your lips in an instant, unbidden and raw. 

Oberyn paused at that, hesitating at the way you clutched at his fingers like a lifeline. You both knew that you weren’t asking him to stay by your side for the night, to remain there until you fell asleep--no. That didn’t matter in the end. What you were asking, what had slipped from your mouth before you could catch it, was something else entirely. Something deeper. Something that hurt to think about. 

You loathed how much weight that single word held. 

Silently, you waited with bated breath as Oberyn sucked in a heavy breath. And then he grasped your hand more fully, running his thumb over your knuckles until you released a breath of your own.

“Always,” he said. And in the dead silence of the night, it sounded like a vow.

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my [writing tumblr](https://haildoodles-writing.tumblr.com/) for updates and more info on ASWSIE!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** . . . so it’s been two months.  
> I admit I’ve been wanting to get back into this story for a while--but after exams, intense classes, art, covid cases, and pretty much everything trying to bury me alive lol, I honestly haven’t had the time nor motivation to write. But as of now, though, I’m done with classes until next fall, which leaves me a plentiful amount of time to (finally) start rolling out content. I’m super excited to get back into Oberyn and reader’s relationship, and I hope you are too! You can look forward to some ASWSIE Oberyn artwork pretty soon, as a little treat for waiting ;)))  
> Oh, one more thing! The main theme for this fic is “Whisper of a Thrill” by Thomas Newman--and for some of the more emotionally intense themes, I listen to a few songs from the A Beautiful Mind score (for example, I listened to “A Car Chase” during this chapter). I always have those pulled up while I write, since those songs are basically the vibes of the entire fic. Enjoy!  
>  **Warnings:** mentions of misogyny, implied abuse (brief), Oberyn Gets Protective

It was well past sunrise when you woke.

Though you don’t remember dreaming, all you recalled was that your rest wasn’t . . . pleasant. You woke briefly when the sun crept into the room--but instead of jumping awake as you normally would have at that hour, you merely grunted and rolled back over, letting the sunrays warm your back until well past dawn. You wanted to get at least a _few_ hours of relatively peaceful sleep while you could, consequences be damned.

You ended up fully waking a few hours later, and your muscles groaned as you stretched. It was only then that you realized that what you were laying on was much too soft to be Oberyn’s chaise. No--you were in his _bed_ , with the thin duvet pulled up to your shoulders and a myriad of pillows surrounding you. 

The last thing you remembered from the night before was Oberyn sitting on the floor next to the chaise, having draped a spare blanket over you as you curled up for the evening. You both knew you were in no mood to talk--if the dryness of your throat and burning eyes told you anything. So instead, Oberyn spoke in hushed tones until you drifted off, weaving stories of his trips abroad so vividly that you could imagine being there yourself. 

You didn’t remember Oberyn moving you to his _bed_. 

Turning over quickly, a feeling of anxiousness overtook you as you glanced to your side. The idea of Oberyn sleeping next to you nearly scandalized you, as something like that was much to far from proper--

You breathed a sigh of relief when you saw that the sheets were pristine--undisturbed, unused. He hadn’t been there. You wondered where he went, if he had spent the night here or simply gone somewhere else for the evening. You weren’t sure which—but the thought of Oberyn scrunched up on the chaise next to you shot a pang of guilt through your chest. You shouldn’t have been there, you should have woken up sooner—

“You’re awake,” Oberyn called, his voice soft as he slid through the open doors. In his arms were a stack of books, some with folded papers and colored pieces of cloth protruding from their pages. When he glanced at you, his smile was warm. 

You rubbed at your eyes, trying--and _spectacularly_ failing--to wipe the sleep from your face as you yawned. He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by the sight of you curled up in his bed--but still, warmth tinged at your cheeks. You shouldn’t have been there, drifting in and out of sleep like a feline in the afternoon sun and acting like his chambers were _yours--_

“I shouldn’t have fallen asleep so quickly last night,” you admitted, and you felt embarrassment bite at your cheeks. “I took advantage of your hospitality, and I truly--”

“Nonsense,” Oberyn tutted over his shoulder, having walked to a nearby longtable to set his books down. “My chambers are yours, my dove. There’s no need to feel shame.” The words flowed from his lips nonchalantly--as if he were talking about the weather outside, or the menu from last night’s supper. Not the fact that he was offering his _rooms_ to you. 

You were well aware you couldn’t argue with him on it--he was quite a stubborn man, after all--so you bit back your tongue, choosing to slide out of the covers and stand from the bed in silence. It was only then that you remembered that you were dressed in a spare robe of Oberyn’s, and you felt your face heat. You recalled that the set of clothes Oberyn had offered you-- _his_ clothes--didn’t fit you quite right, and so he opted to give you a thick robe instead. It was better than nothing, after all--but still, you felt exposed. Vulnerable. If Oberyn saw you adjust the robe quickly to hide your _very_ bare legs, he didn’t mention it. 

“How long did I sleep?” you asked quietly, turning to straighten out the bed sheets--to erase all hints of you being there. By the light outside, you guessed that it was likely the early afternoon, though you couldn’t quite tell--

Oberyn chuckled as he moved to the chaise. “It’s well past noon. You slept like the dead,” he replied with a chuckle. “You didn’t so much as stir when I moved you.”

“I should have woken,” you scolded yourself under your breath.

“You needed rest,” he shrugged. “I wasn’t going to take that from you.” 

And then he paused, and a grin pulled at the corners of his lips.

“. . . Though, I _do_ regret you not being awake to send me those berries,” he mused. “The kitchen staff don’t prepare them like you do.” 

You sensed that he was trying to lighten the mood, to tug away the tension that settled over you like a raincloud. And you wanted to respond, truly . . . but you couldn’t. 

All that came to your lips was a quiet “ _oh_ ,” and then you were silent again. 

“You . . .” 

Oberyn hesitated for a moment too long, his gaze falling to the floor as he chewed on his words. Considering. 

“You wept last night, in your sleep,” he whispered. “I thought that you were injured at first, somehow, but . . .”

You stilled. 

Though you couldn’t recall your dreams, you remembered that you felt . . . _off_ , in the brief moments you were awake. Earlier that morning, you had woken with dry eyes and trembling hands and an ache that sunk into the marrow of your bones, but you had merely chalked it up to your exhaustion. You didn’t let your thoughts roam deeper than that--you _couldn’t_.

Looking back on the previous day’s events _now_ was painful enough, with your mother’s words lingering in the back of your mind like a rotting disease. You weren’t surprised that it haunted your dreams, too.

You couldn’t find it within yourself to respond. 

Instead, you busied yourself by lowering yourself onto the bed and fiddling with the sleeve of your robe. You forced yourself to swallow back the thickness in your throat, even if you knew it was futile--

“What happened, my dove?” 

The words were quiet, gentle, running over you like water. You glanced up to find him already staring at you with worry, with so much emotion floating in his eyes that it nearly made you crumble-

Your chest constricted in an instant, and you felt your eyes burning as you lowered your head. You were _ashamed_ \--ashamed at how much you were hiding from him, at how much you wished you loathed your family but _couldn’t_ \--

You didn’t notice that Oberyn had moved until he was at your side, the bed dipping as he sat. He left a slight space in between you both--in case you wanted to move away. You didn’t. Instead, you blindly reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his and squeezing until you could manage to breathe again. 

Somewhere inside yourself, you wondered if you were using him in some way--if you were taking advantage of his generosity and care for you because you _knew_ he would offer it freely. And you questioned if your touches were making him uncomfortable, if he was just being near you to ease your pain until you could stand up on your own two feet again--

It was those thoughts that made your grip slacken. 

But Oberyn . . . 

Oberyn sensed it. He only held you harder.

“Do you . . .” You swallowed. “Do you remember when we first met?”

“Of course,” he answered, a hint of amusement tinging his voice. “You were selling wares at the market.”

“ _Stolen_ wares,” you corrected. 

After you had left Godsgrace, you sifted through the entirety of Sunspear for some type of job. You managed to find temporary work--a porter at a local hostel, a scullery maid for a low-class estate--but soon those jobs grew too few and far between, and you became desperate. 

And so out of pure recklessness, you began to steal unwanted items from market stalls and resell them for a few coppers. It was always small, insignificant things--chipped pottery, torn clothing, unripened fruit. Things that, had you not taken them, would have been thrown out anyway. For the most part, you bartered for them, or at least offered a portion of the minimal profits in return. But sometimes . . . sometimes you grew too desperate. And that’s how Oberyn found you--dirtied and hopeless, but brushing off your despondence with a soft smile that won over passerbys. 

Though you managed to fool most, Oberyn had caught onto you almost immediately. Only a five-minute conversation had told him enough. But he didn’t expose your fraud for what it was at first; No, instead he tugged the confession out of you bit by bit, waiting until you spilled. And when you did . . . 

You still remember his sympathetic smile, his shoulders lowering as he tossed an unripe grapefruit between his hands. 

_It’s . . . saddening_ , he had said, _to see a little bird scavenge for scraps._

“. . . And instead of sending me off for punishment, you offered me work,” you continued. You couldn’t fight the smile pulling at your lips as you recalled everything--especially the younger, more vivacious Oberyn that you had met. He was . . . a _lively_ one, to say the least. 

“I had to,” he admitted. “You did it out of desperation, not because you enjoyed it. Giving you a position was the least I could do.” He had told you as much, many times before. In any other situation, he likely would have had you imprisoned the minute he discovered your fraud. But back then, you had only the clothes on your back and a few coppers in your pocket--and despite Oberyn’s feared reputation, he was still merciful. He wouldn’t punish others unless he _had_ to. 

Noticing you pause, Oberyn continued. “What of it?” he called gently. He let your grip slacken then, and your fingers absentmindedly traced the lines of his palm. 

You breathed in once. Twice. 

_No more walls_ , you chastised yourself. _No boundaries_. 

_You tell him everything._

“I never told you why I had fled from home,” you said shakily. And you didn’t--each time it was brought up, you gave vague excuses until the conversation passed, trying to hide it out of pure cowardice. The words never seemed to come out--they never so much as strung themselves together.

At your side, Oberyn fell silent. 

You swallowed.

“There was . . . a man,” you whispered.

As you spoke, the words barely scraped by the tightness in your chest and the lump in your throat--and it was _painful_. You had kept it held to your chest for so long, and letting it escape was nearly unbearable--

Oberyn tensed. 

“As they raised me, my parents had made sure I was aware that I likely wouldn’t marry out of love. They were lenient with it, mostly because I was second to my elder brother, I assumed . . . but then Aenien fell in love with a woman just as poor as he, and that left me to pick up the scraps,” you said.

Oberyn took in a heady breath, and you knew he caught on to what you were explaining--

“--Which was fine, I suppose,” you defended immediately. “I knew it would happen, that my parents would likely send me off to be some lordling’s wife. And the one they chose was a fine man--older than me, as I expected, but well-kept, decent. Kind.

“. . . But then, after a few weeks of meetings, I started to overhear rumors from the estate servants. It was merely small complaints at first, fleeting things--that the alcohol storage was always running too low, that their Lord had disappeared for one too many evenings. It was concerning, but I chose to ignore it. 

“. . . And then one evening, as I was wandering around his estate, I found him,” you croaked. Your throat felt thick as the words tumbled out--and you couldn’t stop them.

“My fiancé--he was . . . he was sitting by a fire, with a bottle of wine in his hands. And when I took him in, I saw how his eyes were glassy, and his movements were entirely too sloppy. I walked closer to check if he was alright--but when I was near enough, he grasped me by the wrist and he looked at me . . .” You swallowed thickly, and it _burned_.

“He looked at me like I was a _thing_ ,” you said, and the words tasted like acid on your tongue. You could still imagine just how _predatory_ his gaze was--how dark, how cruel. He didn’t say anything, though. He only sat there, taking gulps of his wine straight from the bottle, and _stared_. 

“I was barely rising into my maidenhood, and he saw me as a _thing_ ,” you spat. 

By then, you had released your hand from Oberyn’s, instead picking at the skin of your knuckles as a distraction. At your side, though, you could see how still Oberyn had become, how quiet, and you weren’t sure if he was _breathing--_

“Nothing . . . nothing happened, thankfully,” you continued, unable to stop yourself from spilling any longer. “But after that night, when everyone around me carried on with ceremony preparations, I couldn’t take it anymore. The next morning, I managed to confront a group of his maids and question them about his behavior. And the things they _said_ \--”

Your stomach churned, and you bit down on your tongue. _Hard_. You could feel your eyes burning with tears--but at that point, hiding them would be futile. It didn’t matter anymore. 

In that moment, you could feel Oberyn’s stare on your skin. He likely was confused, frustrated, wondering why you kept this from him for _so long_ \--

“I tried to explain the situation to my parents,” you told him, and your voice cracked as you spoke. “I begged them to call the union off, but they refused to believe me. I suppose they were too desperate to consider other options,” you laughed bitterly. 

“One morning, I fought with them,” you admitted. “They argued that all my claims were delusions, that I was finding any excuse to call off the union. They refused to listen.”

A deep, heady sigh escaped you, and you felt your chest sink at the action.

“And so I left,” you whispered. 

And that was it. 

_I left_.

Everything fell quiet, then. The words that spilled into your lap seemed to freeze in place, and you couldn’t help but grow stiff as you waited--

Suddenly, you felt the crook of Oberyn’s finger slipping under your chin, raising your face to look at him fully. And when you took in his expression, your eyes began to water all over again--

He looked _mournful_. 

“You kept this to yourself, all this time?” he whispered, his eyes flicking between your own. He was still tense—and you knew that he was likely furious, bubbling with thoughts that you knew were deadly--

You recalled an evening with him a few years prior, when he recited a conversation that he had during his time in the North. _We don’t hurt little girls in Dorne_ , he had said—and he swore by it.

_We don’t hurt little girls in Dorne._

You needn’t guess how much your words pained him—to know that he was wrong, that his hopeful words were a lie.

Slowly, you nodded. “I thought . . . I thought that if I didn’t speak of it, then no one would discover what happened,” you confessed. “And if no one knew . . .”

_Then I wouldn’t have to go back home._

Oberyn lowered his hand from your chin, and he nodded in understanding. 

“I’m honored that you told me,” he said--and just like that, your anxiousness flooded out of you like the tide. He wasn’t disappointed, he didn’t look at you differently because of your cowardice--

“You shouldn’t feel ashamed,” he insisted, meeting your eyes. “Not in the slightest.” 

And you didn’t. You never regretted leaving home--and you didn’t think you ever would, either. Still though, that tiny seed in the pit of your stomach--that _guilt_ \--gnawed at you, and it left you utterly exhausted. You couldn’t fight it. 

As if reading your thoughts, Oberyn met your gaze. “They forced your hand,” he told you, “and you made the best decision you could. You should never question your decisions.” 

Eventually, you bowed your head in agreement. Words bubbled up your throat, but they never reached your lips. 

They _did_ force your hand. And now . . . 

_Now they’re doing it again_ , you thought. 

And this time, you couldn’t get out of it.

“You are strong, my dove,” Oberyn whispered, tugging you gently from your racing thoughts. Your head shot up in response, meeting his gaze again.

“You’re resilient, and persistent,” he continued. “You show courage. That you chose to fight against your destined path to carve your own . . .” As his eyes glanced over your face, his expression softened. His hand, having fallen onto his lap, slightly raised as if to touch you. But then he seemed to remember himself, and it promptly lowered. 

“I feel as though the strongest winds and most powerful tide could beat against you and you’d remain unmoved,” he said. 

For a moment, you just breathed. 

“You flatter me, my prince,” you whispered, trying to hide the way his comment affected you. You took to staring at the front of your robe instead, tugging it closer to hide your legs. 

In response, Oberyn merely shrugged--as if it was the most casual thing in the world, as if his compliment didn’t settle within your bones and make you feel _stronger_ , more stable. As if his words were the truth. 

For a moment, you both sat beside each other in silence. You didn’t make the slightest move to leave--and you didn’t _want_ to. It was . . . calm. Comforting.

And then quietly, as if not to disturb the atmosphere between you both, Oberyn began to talk. 

“If I may ask, what caused you to speak of this, my dove?” he asked softly, the words barely audible above your own breathing. 

And just like that, the air around you seemed to freeze in place. You went stiff.

Silently, you cursed yourself.

It was foolish to think that your conversation, your _confession_ , would end there--that he wouldn’t question what happened the day prior, that everything could go back to the way it was and that everything would be _fine_ \--

Your tongue fell flat. You didn’t have the courage to tell him yesterday’s events outright; no, you were too yellow-bellied for his reaction. And you knew that his response would be fierce--he never liked the idea of unconsenting marriages, of people being forced into a union merely for property or coin. The mere idea of it was bittering to him, though he never explained why. 

You remember what he had told you days prior, as you both walked through the water gardens: that he, too, was considering marriage. 

But in the end, for him it was just that: a consideration. A possibility. He had a _choice_.

Who knew how he would react when you told him that you didn’t. 

And now, as you sat next to him with burning eyes and trembling hands, you knew you had to try to steer him clear of the truth. You weren’t sure you could deal with the outcome, and you didn’t have it in you to tell him outrightly--

“It was from yesterday, wasn’t it,” he gathered, and you heaved a shaky breath.

“I visited home,” you admitted, “though, I’m certain you already know that.” It was pointless to hide it from him. You had already spoken to him about the letter, after all; surely it wasn't difficult for him to guess.

“What for?” he asked. His voice was slightly firmer this time, and out of the corner of your eye, you could see his jaw tick. 

You chewed on your words for a moment, trying to dance around the question. “My father . . . he injured his leg. They’re not certain if he can walk again,” you told him. And you fruitlessly hoped that he wouldn’t push further, that he wouldn’t pry you open and dig through your thoughts until you told him the truth--

“And so they sent for your aid,” Oberyn concluded, resting his elbows on his thighs as he leaned forward. 

Internally, you breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully that was it, hopefully you could pull the conversation to something else--

“What did they want?” he asked. 

You paused. 

“They’re in need of more money,” you told him; it wasn’t a lie. “My funds alone aren’t enough for them to stay afloat any longer, and I’m to help them find other means of income.”

“And what did they ask of you?” he asked, sounding completely calm--something that sent nervous shivers down your spine. In that moment, you knew he was catching on, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to lie—

“I . . .” You scrambled for a response, and flimsy deceptions flitted through your mind-- _they need me to take on another job, to move back home, to sell my belongings--_

Quietly, Oberyn said your name. 

“What did they want,” he repeated. His voice was even-toned, his posture unnaturally stiff-- 

You swallowed thickly. Any clumsy excuses died in your throat.

_I’m getting married_ , you wanted to confess. You didn’t. 

At your side, Oberyn watched you. 

And then, like a lock finally clicking in place, your silence suddenly answered him. The ticking gears reduced to a halt. Around you, the atmosphere grew suffocatingly thick.

And slowly, Oberyn Martell rose to his feet. 

The silence was biting as he rubbed his hands together, taking a step away from the bed--away from _you_. You wanted to say something, _anything_ , but your tongue felt like a lead weight--

“They’re marrying you off,” he said, rather nonchalantly.

Coming from his own mouth, that single sentence felt like a blow to the chest.

“. . . Yes.”

He wasn’t looking at you when you confessed; no, instead he faced the balcony doors, still rubbing at his hands and twisting his rings as he stood completely still. You couldn’t gage his expression--though you weren’t sure you wanted to. 

“Do you know him?” he asked quietly, but his words cut through the air--through _you_ \--like a fire-hot blade. 

“No.” 

You wished you did--because then it would have made the situation so much _simpler_ , so much easier to swallow--

“And do you want it?” he asked--as if the entire situation didn’t affect him, as if he didn’t care for it in the slightest. 

But you knew him, and you knew his anger. 

And in that moment, he was holding himself back. He was chaining himself to the ground in front of you, forcing himself not to sink his fangs into your chest--

And to anyone else, it would seem as if he was unaffected. 

But to you . . . 

To you, he was _seething_. 

“. . . I don’t know,” you answered him. There was no point in lying any longer, anyway. 

Oberyn huffed, and you knew immediately what that meant. 

_That’s not a valid answer,_ it said. _Do better_. 

“You don’t know,” Oberyn repeated, chewing on the words until it turned to powder. 

And then suddenly, he chuckled. 

_Bitterly_.

“You are being wedded to a man you’ve never heard of,” he mused, “and in doing so, you are objectifying yourself to fulfill your parents’ wishes, regardless of what they have done to you. And despite all of this, you are _still_ _considering it_.”

He turned to you then, and the look he gave you sent shivers down your spine. He was simmering, boiling at the edges. The hand at his side clenched and unclenched hard enough that his knuckles popped, and the muscles in his jaw tensed as he ground his teeth--

“You don’t understand,” you tried to reason, rising to your feet. “My parents will _starve_ if I don’t help, I don’t have any other options--”

“You do,” he snapped, the words even-toned but knife-sharp. 

“I will provide for them,” he offered--though it sounded more like a demand. “I’ll send the best healers we have, and I’ll cover their finances until they can properly sustain themselves.”

“ _No_ ,” you breathed. “Absolutely not. I won’t have you prioritizing my needs above the other workers. You _can’t_.” 

“And why not?” he pressed. 

“It’s unfair,” you reasoned, taking a step forward. “Other staff would need those funds more than I.” You immediately thought of Kaegan--he had a younger sister in Sunspear, one he was providing for. If Oberyn were to hand out golden dragons, Kaegan would take priority in an instant--

“You are not just staff,” he told you, cutting off your thoughts. “First and foremost, you are my _friend_. There is _nothing_ I wouldn’t do.” 

His words clanged through your like a ringing bell, nearly stopping you in your tracks. His _friend_ , one he wanted to help--

No. _No._ You wouldn’t let him give you an advantage above the others--you couldn’t.

“I won’t let you prioritize me, Oberyn,” you begged. “I have to do this. _Please_.”

At that, Oberyn paused, and the hand that he had been clenching so violently went slack. His gaze swept over you then, taking you in fully: your tensed shoulders, your raised hands with outstretched palms. The way your eyes begged, _pleaded,_ for him to understand. 

For a moment, he simply stared. 

“Why are you so willing to aid them?” he eventually asked. His tone was balanced, quiet, absent of any venom. Genuinely curious, with a hint of something you couldn’t place--

“They’ve refused to communicate with you for seven years,” he murmured, “and only now, when they’re desperate, do they wish to mend that bridge.” 

The words brushed over you, falling off your shoulders and landing silently on the floor. You already knew their intent: to use you, whether it was purposeful or not. 

You were already numb to it. 

“I know,” you said. You couldn’t meet his gaze.

“They’re exploiting you,” Oberyn pushed.

“I know.” 

He rubbed at his jaw. “Why, then?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

“They’re _family,_ ” you croaked. “And even if they are manipulative, or broken, or arguably cruel . . . I can’t leave them to rot with the knowledge that I could have prevented it.”

And before you could stop yourself, the confession spilled out.

“And I . . . I think that would like to be married as well,” you admitted, and you loathed how much your eyes _burned._ “I admit that I’ve been playing with the idea for quite some time.” You couldn’t meet his gaze when you spoke--you weren’t sure what he would have seen within you if you did.

“So I suppose that this situation, albeit . . . _unexpected,_ fulfills that wish.” 

You were almost _ashamed_ at how defeated you sounded, at how those last words tumbled from your lips like a collapsing dam. But still, you couldn’t allow yourself to fall apart completely.

Not in front of him, not _now._

“You are so willing to bury your future, just so you can remedy the past,” Oberyn breathed, and something settled within him. Some final, morbid realization. 

You remained silent--you couldn’t argue with him on it. 

_Burying your future for your past._ You hadn’t thought of it like that before--but it was true, wasn’t it? You were willing to stifle the childish dreams of a spouse who cherished you, the ability to say _I love you_ before a band was slipped onto your finger. The ability to _choose,_ just because you _could._

Despite your lack of options, despite your guilt-ridden obligations--were you truly ready to throw all of it away?

“I am,” you whispered. You closed your eyes.

_I am. I am. I am._

And as you stood there, repeating those two words in quick succession, you realized that for the most part, you _were._ You had abandoned your family for too long, and you knew you were their only option. But still--those silly little dreams floated in the back of your mind, and you were much too weak to stop it.

_But still._

Oberyn stared at you for a moment far too long, a thousand thoughts that he refused to voice flickering in his eyes. He seemed calmer than he was minutes prior--but you knew that it could be a ruse. For your sake. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” you pleaded. You took a step forward, merely a few feet away from him now. The air felt thick. 

He looked you over once, twice--and you knew he was reading you like an open book, cracking your soul open until he knew every thought that was running through your mind. He stood there, quietly, and he _listened,_ searching for those words you couldn’t bear to voice.

You could only imagine what you looked like in Oberyn’s eyes: broken and frail, trying to hold yourself together before the pieces fell through your fingers like sand. Hunched over, submissive. Utterly _defeated._

And as you watched him, you saw him flick through a slew of emotions in an instant: anger and frustration and outright _pain_ all flowing through him simultaneously. You loathed yourself for heaping so many revelations onto him at once--that you confessed the secrets of your past only to tell him that you were _leaving_ , that your future didn’t include him--

It _hurt_. 

Your thoughts went quiet as you only stared, waiting for him to respond. Waiting for him to _react--_

And then, as if something in him snapped, Oberyn’s eyes went hard. 

“. . . Damn them,” he whispered. It was quiet enough that you barely caught the words. 

And then, once again--

“ _Damn them._ ”

“. . . What?” you questioned, your brow lowering. 

In front of you, Oberyn breathed out a bitter laugh. 

“Damn them,” he snapped, and he stepped back in slow, almost _sloppy_ movements. “Damn your parents, that _suitor,_ all of them.”

“Oberyn--”

“ _Damn them_ _for doing this to you_.” 

You sucked in a breath. 

“They have forced your hand once again,” he continued. “They have backed you into a corner, and you’ve surrendered because it is your only option.” 

“Oberyn, I--”

Your mouth fell slack when he looked at you, his eyes alight and expression seething. But it wasn’t at _you--_ no, it was at everyone else. 

And as his rage settled deep within you, it was in that moment that everything _clicked._

You knew that Oberyn cared about you, that he thought of you as a friend, a confidante. But it never quite sunk in; you supposed that it was your own fault, having shut out your emotions towards him for quite some time. But now, as you stood there, and as he seethed at the world for condemning you to such a state, you finally realized what he felt towards you. How _deep_ that friendship went.

Your eyes burned. 

But you didn’t have enough time to voice your thoughts--because then Oberyn was shaking his head, stepping towards you with heavy feet, and your mind fell quiet. 

When he was close enough, he reached up to trace your jaw--a soft touch, so at odds with the fiery anger in his eyes. “You deserve better than what the world has given you,” he said. 

And then he dropped his hand, not giving you any time to process his touch before he spun on his heel as he headed towards the bedroom door. 

“Where are you going?” you managed to choke out. 

“To think,” he muttered--but the words were sharp, and his voice _stung_.

_To think._

He was gone before you could ask what that meant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my [writing tumblr](https://haildoodles-writing.tumblr.com/) for updates and more info on ASWSIE!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** hello everyone! So sorry for being MIA, covid hit me like a train last month and threw my motivation into the gutter lol. Reading your lovely comments has been a huge motivator for me to keep going, though, so I finally came around to finishing this chapter hahaha. Love you all! 
> 
> Warnings: none

The walk back to your quarters was . . . _complicated,_ to say the least.

After Oberyn had left his chambers, you tidied the room in silence before changing into your riding clothes from the day prior. The pants and tunic were stiff from dust and wind, making it uncomfortable to put back on--but you would much rather be stuffed into awkwardly-fitting clothes than have to slink through the halls in Oberyn’s robe. Had anyone caught you wearing his attire . . .

You didn’t want to cause any rumors. You couldn’t _afford_ to. 

_You are my friend,_ he had told you earlier-- _pleaded,_ even, as if he were trying to convince you that it was true. 

And it was. Of _course_ it was. 

But despite the bond you two shared, you were still a maid serving a prince. You were _miles_ below him, and that distance came with rules. _Protocols._ And to a man where jurisdiction was at his fingertips and love came at no price, you weren’t sure he would understand why you stuck to them so closely. You weren’t sure he _could_. 

You shook your head as you crossed the building to the servants’ wing, stifling the thoughts as quickly as they came. You didn’t have the energy to think about it any longer--not after what had just happened. 

You were certain that you wouldn’t be seeing Oberyn for a while. Situations like that usually ended in him finding some place to isolate himself and think, whether it be the gardens or the library--or even the sparring ring, if he couldn’t shake off his anger enough. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he ended up in the latter. 

Though you didn’t blame him much for it. His anger was out of protection, and you understood why. Had the roles been reversed, had Oberyn been the one pushed into an arranged marriage against his will . . . you would have responded the same. 

You prayed that he wouldn’t affect him for much longer, though, and that he would calm down soon enough. And that eventually, maybe, he would become numb to it. Just as you were beginning to be. 

The servants’ wing was lively when you arrived, more so than it usually would have been at that hour. A glance into a few open doorways and at a few scurrying maids answered your question: they were all packing. They were to leave for the Old Palace tomorrow, you remembered--and they would arrive a day before you. 

Thankfully, no one paid you any mind as you hurried down the halls, likely too preoccupied with putting together their own belongings to give you much notice. A few familiar faces glanced your way as you passed--but you kept walking, slinking back into the crowd before they could recognize you. 

Much to your relief, your chambers were quiet when you entered--and so you went about gathering a spare set of clothes, a towel, and a few toiletries as quickly as you could. You wanted to sneak to the bathhouse before Khaegan came in. Or anyone else, for that matter. 

After stuffing everything into a cloth bag, you locked the door and changed into a bathrobe and sandals. You threw your riding clothes into a heap at the foot of your bed—you didn’t have the time to wash them now. You didn’t have the energy to, either.

The moment you finished changing, you collapsed onto the edge of your bed and released a heavy, quiet sigh. You nearly considered lying there for a while, perhaps slipping in a nap before you bathed and inevitably went back to your duties—

As if on cue, a knock sounded at the door. You nearly groaned. 

It was a feat to get your feet underneath you again, but eventually you crossed the room and unlocked the door with clumsy fingers. And beyond it . . .

“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” Khaegan said, his face blank as he leaned against the doorway. Judging by his lack of surprise, you presumed he had seen you in the hallway and followed you back. Probably. 

You shrugged, turning back to collect your things as he stepped further into the room. “I arrived late last night,” you told him. “I’ve been with the prince since then.” 

At that, Khaegan raised a brow--but he closed his mouth when you shot him a dry look. 

You grew quiet as he rummaged around his side of the room, pulling clothes and toiletries and a random assortment of items from the boxes underneath his bed. He dropped everything into an old, fraying wool bag at his side. Only when he was finished did he turn to look at you.

His eyes flicked around your side of the room--likely looking for your own luggage. “Are you not packing?” he asked.

“I suppose I forgot to tell you,” you chuckled, “I’m leaving a day after you all. The prince wishes for me to travel with his escorts.”

To his credit, Khaegan didn’t seem fazed by your comment. You suppose it made sense, after all, for you to travel with Oberyn instead of the other servants; your job required you to be close to him as much as possible, especially since you were his only handmaiden--at least at the Water Gardens. 

You wondered why that was. 

Khaegan let out a loud, dramatic sigh as he sat on the side of his bed. “Disappointing,” he muttered. “I was rather looking forward to watching you blush over the prince on our journey there.” 

“Bite me,” you huffed. Khaegan merely laughed. 

Being the perceptive one he was, it didn’t take long after you met for Khaegan to realize your feelings for the prince. Though, you weren’t necessarily _inconspicuous_ about it; unlike your chambermate, you were never good at hiding your emotions. And so Khaegan had to witness your years-long pining over the prince, but he never once pressured you to speak of it unless you felt inclined to do so. 

. . . Though you never outrightly expressed how you felt about him. And truth be told, you weren’t necessarily sure how you felt about him yourself. It was just a flurry of emotions and feelings--some that came in passing fancies and others that made home inside your chest. You weren’t sure you could put it into words, even if you tried. 

You assume it’s because you refused to acknowledge it for so long.

Khaegan didn’t respond to your jab, and you allowed yourself to bask in the quiet--so at odds with the commotion beyond the door--for a moment longer. But then, just as you shouldered your bag and stood, his next words stopped you. 

“Why have you returned so soon?”

. . . You paused. 

And then you took in a breath. Another. 

“Things . . . didn’t turn out well, with my parents,” you offered. To your own surprise, it wasn’t difficult to spit out. You supposed that it was because you had already said enough with Oberyn; what was one more confession?

For a minute, Khaegan paused. 

“Do you want to speak with me about it?”

“I . . .” You chewed on your lip. 

At first, you weren’t sure you wanted to--weren’t sure that you had the _strength_ to. But the longer you thought about it, the more you realized that you _should._ Kaegan was the closest friend you had--and, more than that, he was one of the few you trusted.

“I suppose I need to,” you whispered. “Just . . .” 

Khaegan watched as you tensed under his scrutiny. And you tried--you _tried_ \--to straighten yourself, to throw your shoulders back and release the tension in your arms until you appeared relatively _normal._ But that weight, the one that hung like a millstone around your neck, gave it all away. 

“Why don’t you clean up,” he offered. “Then we can talk.” 

☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼

You told him everything. 

. . . Well, _nearly_ everything. You couldn’t bring yourself to go into too much detail, despite the fact that you knew you should. You promised that you would tell him in time. Just . . . not now.

Khaegan was still seated on his bed when you returned from the bathhouse, and he waited patiently until you gathered your thoughts together. And when you eventually confessed, he sat there in relative silence, only speaking up occasionally when he needed more clarification--the _who_ s, the _what_ s, the _how_ s--

Though, he never pushed too far. He never asked why, either. You were grateful for it.

Once you were finished, you waited for a minute as Khaegan’s gaze turned shallow--likely processing everything. You weren’t bothered by it. 

Eventually he spoke up--and unlike you, he wasn’t one to palter. 

“What will you do?” 

His face was impassive--it had been since you began to spill. It was normal for him to take in information before reacting, though. You didn’t expect any emotion-driven comments from him any time soon. 

“My parents will send a letter with the location of the suitor’s estate, and I’ll meet with him soon after,” you shrugged. It sounded monotonous--and by that point, you were sure it _had_ to be. 

“And then?” Khaegan pushed. You knew what he was pressuring you to say. 

_And then . . ._

You swallowed thickly.

“I’ll marry him,” you whispered, and it felt heavy on your tongue. And as they fell from your lips, you realized it was the first time you had spoken it aloud. The first time you had truly and openly _confirmed_ it. 

_I’ll marry him._

It was final.

In front of you, Khaegan rested his elbows on his thighs. “Though you don’t want to,” he concluded quietly. His eyes flicked over your face, your posture, taking everything in. 

Processing. Always processing.

“If I’m being completely truthful . . . part of me does,” you admitted to him. “If I don’t marry now, I likely won’t have the opportunity to again. And I’m not going to leave my family behind, either. So I suppose that in doing this . . .” You shrugged. “It kills two birds with one stone, so to speak. I told the prince the same.” The words were still raw from when you spoke to Oberyn, though, merely an hour or so prior. Saying them still _hurt._

Perhaps if you repeated them enough, they wouldn’t weigh you down as they do now. Perhaps they would lose their meaning, and saying them wouldn’t feel like you were trying to breathe around a blade in your chest anymore. And maybe the weights hanging from your neck would shatter, too, and you would finally be able to move without _breaking_.

For a minute, Khaegan didn’t respond. He simply sat there and waited, watching as you finally hunched over and buried your head in your hands--

You didn’t look up as you heard shuffling, and then the quiet sound of footsteps. And then the bed dipped, and he was next to you, pressing a tentative palm against your back.

Khaegan wasn’t one for touch. He was protective of his own personal space, and any invasion made him uncomfortable--it always had been. So the fact that he had moved to your side, sitting close to you, offering a supportive hand because he _knew_ how much you needed it . . . 

Your eyes burned.

“You’ll be alright,” he whispered, his voice flowing through you like a gentle tide. And for a moment, it was enough to calm you, enough to soothe your frazzled mind and rushing thoughts--

“I know I will,” you croaked. 

_I will. I will. I will--_

Your hands dropped to your lap, and everything around you began to grow blurry. Somewhere deep inside you, you felt the last remaining bit of your strength crack. 

You began to sob. 

☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼

Khaegan and the rest of the staff left early the next morning. 

The switch in workers was, unsurprisingly, an ordeal that lasted quite some time. Overnight, the servants stationed at the Old Palace arrived in small waves in an attempt to make the transition smoother--which was successful, of course, but it didn’t make the Water Gardens any less _loud._

Unlike your chambermate, you found yourself tossing and turning as you tried to sleep. Over time you grew irritated at the constant bustle--and when that irritation manifested into clenched fists, a large headache, and a heavy weight behind your eyes that refused to fade, you climbed from your bed and trudged through the hallways with a heady sigh. The blanket you brought with you was hung loosely around your shoulders, and you managed to shuck on a pair of sandals before you left. Luckily, no one paid you any attention as you wandered. 

To where, you didn’t know. Just . . . somewhere. _Wherever,_ as long as it didn’t claw at your ears any longer. 

Your head still ached from the previous day’s events--and your body was still exhausted from the past _two._ It had begun to wear on you, little by little, and now you were left completely defenseless. Usually, noisy quarters and a lively atmosphere just beyond your door was something you could sleep through--but tonight, as if the gods had cursed you, sleep was no easy feat. Relaxation wasn’t one, either. Eventually, you became so overwhelmed that your eyes burned of frustrated tears. All you wanted to do was to _rest._

And so, needless to say, the sigh that washed through you as you wandered further into the estate gardens nearly toppled you over. You could feel yourself relax with each step down the cobblestone path--and, unsurprisingly, with each step came more exhaustion. 

Eventually, you found yourself in an alcove towards the edges of the gardens, a few turns past the drawing desk you so frequented. It was a place that you visited often, somewhere most of the servants were unaware of--or at least were too busy to discover. For the most part, you could call it your own. 

The alcove was small, roughly around the size of your own chambers, and mainly consisted of a handful of wooden chairs and a circular table--though at the furthest end from the entrance was a long settee, with an arch of vines nearly concealing it from view. It was _exactly_ what you were looking for. 

In an instant, you collapsed onto the settee and threw the blanket over you. The air that night was cool enough for you to be comfortable as you laid there--and you found your hands unclenching and your eyes drooping almost immediately. The rustling of leaves in the wind and the blinking stars above felt like a lullaby. 

It didn’t take you long to fully relax. 

You didn’t realize that you had fallen asleep, however, until a hand on your shoulder jolted you awake. 

Oberyn. 

_Why does he always seem to find you?_

“My dove, why are you sleeping out here?” 

Turning on your side, you found that he was crouched next to you, his head tilted as he stared at you. He was dressed in a loose, burnt orange robe, one that looked almost burgundy in the deep blue night. Likely his nightclothes--or, well, his _wandering_ _clothes_ , as you liked to call them, as it was usually something he threw on just so he didn’t look too improper when he wandered the halls. 

And as he watched you, despite the worry on his face and the crease between his brows, he looked . . . calm. Mellow. The curls brushing his forehead twisted and twirled in the late night breeze, and his eyes glowed and flickered in time with the stars above him—

You wanted to paint it. Paint _him._

Though, that wasn’t anything new, was it?

As you sat up, you shrugged. “I couldn’t fall asleep. The servants’ wing is quite lively at the moment.” 

At that, Oberyn paused.

“Why didn’t you come to my chambers, then? You know you are welcome there.” He seemed . . . well, _confused,_ at the fact that you didn’t disturb him, didn’t wake him by creeping into his rooms to fall asleep on his settee or something of the sort--

“I needed some quiet. It’s . . . rather peaceful here.” 

_And you’re too timid to face him,_ you thought. _Not after earlier._

_Why would he want you in his chambers after_ that _?_

A small, almost _sheepish_ smile tugged at his lips. “Well, if I’m intruding, I can leave you be--”

_“No,_ no,” you interrupted, and it was much louder than you intended. You bit your lip. “I mean . . . you’re welcome to stay, if you’d like.” 

He hesitated for a moment--as if examining you, trying to deduce if you _really_ wanted him there. But then, before you could say anything more, he smiled, smoothing down his robe as he came to sit next to you. Again, not too close, just in case . . .

“I thought you could sleep through such noise,” A small, cheeky smirk pulled at Oberyn’s lips. “You certainly did last time.” 

“I beg of you, don’t torment me _again,"_ you groaned--a sound that was drowned out by his laughter. It was _one banquet,_ and he never seemed to let it go--

“It’s much more difficult to remain asleep when my chamber door screeches every time it opens,” you sighed. Though you couldn’t hide your smile. 

At that, Oberyn chuckled. “Remind me to have someone replace that.” 

You almost protested--surely a rickety servant door wasn’t enough for a Dornish _prince_ to send for aid--but you knew that objecting would only make him fix it faster. He was always like that.

_Hard-headed,_ you thought.

But then, as you took in the man at your side, a realization came to you. “Why are _you_ awake, my prince?” 

He hummed. “Oddly enough, the rest of the estate isn’t any quieter. I thought a walk would do me well,” he answered. And then you saw how his eyes glimmered--

“Though, I _did_ come out to simply walk. I didn’t plan to find you asleep in the farthest alcove from the estate.” You pushed at his shoulder, and his resulting laugh echoed throughout the alcove. It was thrumming and bright, and it warmed your skin like sunshine. “You mock me,” you muttered. 

“Only sometimes,” he smirked, throwing you a wink. “When you deserve it.” 

You rolled your eyes.

And then, before you could help it, you yawned. 

_Loudly._

Oberyn laughed at that, and you felt your face grow warm out of sheer embarrassment--

“You should sleep, my dove,” he told you. “Though not out here. I can prepare my rooms for you--”

“No,” you objected. It was a little louder than you had hoped. “No, that’s alright.” 

You didn’t want to intrude, not again. No matter how much he insisted.

_You wept last night, in your sleep,_ he had told you yesterday. And it didn’t take long after that for you to shatter in front of him. 

. . . You didn’t want to risk him seeing that again. 

Oberyn must have noticed something in your face, in your tone--because after a minute, he gave up. He only hummed in response.

You both fell quiet, and you felt Oberyn’s eyes on you as you fiddled the hem of your blanket. You couldn’t meet his gaze. And in that moment, you were surprised that he hadn’t brought up the unspoken issue between you both yet, the floating question that turned the air so thick it was hard to breathe--

The words slipped out of you before you could think twice. “About earlier . . .” you swallowed. “I hope I didn’t upset you too much--”

Oberyn cut you off. “Nonsense,” he said. “My feelings shouldn’t be placed above your own. In this case, especially.” 

He paused, then, and you felt his gaze on you--taking you in, analyzing you once again. Likely noticing your hunched shoulders, your puffy eyes, the way your body just yearned for some _peace--_

“Besides,” he offered, “something like this is much better suited for daylight, hm?” He tilted his head as he looked at you, and you fought the urge to shrink under his gaze. “The night has no use for such solemnity.” 

He was always the more _logical_ one between the two of you. The wiser one. 

Eventually, you agreed. “Perhaps it would be better to discuss after your name day, wouldn’t it.” And it was, in all honesty, the best decision--you had preparations to take care of, and you were traveling in less than a day’s time, and you hadn’t so much as gotten the _location_ to your suitor’s _estate--_

“Perhaps,” Oberyn shrugged, pulling you from your thoughts as he turned his gaze to the alcove before you. And in that moment, you realized that his lightheartedness was more for your sake than for his. That he would continue to remain casual, at least until the air was lighter and your shoulders felt less heavy. And it _worked._

You were grateful for it.

Oberyn didn’t let the moment stew longer, though, and he let out a deep sigh as he rubbed his hands on his thighs. “I deem that this calls for something to brighten the mood,” he grinned. He shifted to reach into his robe pocket, and it was only then that you realized he had hidden something there. In the darkness, however, all you could make out was a thin, long bump.

“I’d loathe to see your gift be hidden away in my drawers again, after all.” 

At that, you perked up, and your eyes widened. You couldn’t help it—and Oberyn _knew_ it too, which is why it only made him laugh harder.

“A gift?” You swallowed. “Oberyn, if this is about the other day—“

“It’s not.” 

He held up the object--wrapped in cloth and secured with a piece of twine--between you both. And when he spoke again, his voice was soft. “Consider it an early name day gift.”

You took it from him carefully, eyeing him for a moment until he motioned for you to continue. And so you tugged on the string, unfurling the gift onto your lap--

“. . . A paintbrush,” you breathed. An expensive one at that; you hadn’t seen a pure rosewood brush in years, let alone one that was made with sable hair--

Oberyn let out a chuckle as your fingers fluttered around the brush. “It’s from Oldtown,” he explained. “I purchased it during my last trip.” 

“That was months ago,” you pointed out. Had he . . .

“I stored it away for safekeeping,” he answered. “I was planning on gifting it to you on your name day, but . . . the situation called for it.”

You let out a deep breath. “It’s beautiful,” you marveled. Gently, your thumb ran over the bristles, over the small etching in the wood just beneath it: your name. 

And in that moment, you nearly chuckled at your own awe, at how you handled the brush so gently. _How were you supposed to dirty something so priceless?_

“Why give me this now, may I ask? I would assume that it’s in recompense for that charcoal breaking days ago, but this seems much too big a gift so something so simple,” you laughed. And though you didn’t want to, you forced yourself to put the brush down as softly as you could. Oberyn remained oddly quiet as you did so--but when you eventually looked at him again, you saw a small smile adorning his face. 

“You . . .” He swallowed.

You sobered almost immediately.

“I’ve always known that you’ve been treated unfairly. Life has dealt you bitter cards.” With a gentle hand, he reached down and touched the brush, running his fingers over the engraving on its ferrule once. Twice. A third time.

“Until yesterday, I wasn’t aware just how bitter those cards were.” 

You felt your throat grow thick. 

Though you tried not to acknowledge it, you knew his words were true. And sometimes you wished that you had gotten something better--that the man you were fated to marry all those years ago was _good,_ that you never had to grovel and steal after fighting against your own blood--

_You never would have met Oberyn, though,_ you thought. 

The evening grew quiet, then, and you simply watched as Oberyn continued to run his fingers over the brush. 

_Life brought you to him._

_For some reason._

Eventually, Oberyn released a heady breath. “I want you to know that you are safe here,” he promised. Your eyes flicked to his own, then, only to find that he was already staring at you. The intensity in his gaze, the _emotion_ , flooded into you like the sea. 

“No matter what happens, I will protect you,” he whispered. 

The weight of those hit the ground like stone. 

For a moment, you simply sat there, your breathing heavy and your hands shaking as everything began to settle. You couldn’t find the words to respond--you didn’t think you ever _would,_ either. 

He promised--he _swore_ \--to protect you. And for him, to make an oath . . .

Before you thought twice, you took his hand and raised it to your lips, pressing a kiss against his knuckles. His skin was warm, comforting, thrumming with a vibrancy that you wanted to drown yourself in--

When you opened your eyes, you saw his own burning into you. 

And you found that, though you wanted to shrink under his stare, you couldn’t look away.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”

You didn’t release his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my [writing tumblr](https://haildoodles-writing.tumblr.com/) for updates and more info on ASWSIE!

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [writing tumblr](https://haildoodles-writing.tumblr.com/) for updates and more info on ASWSIE!


End file.
